scripture

Inspiration and Aspiration: Our Blessed Mother and the Apostles

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment
inspiration – n. – the action or power of moving the intellect or emotions
aspiration – n. – a strong desire to achieve something high or great

Last month, our adult faith formation groups talked about Our Blessed Mother. The discussions were good, and the Q&A with our priests each night centered primarily around the Immaculate Conception and the fact that Mary remained sinless throughout her life.

I find Mary to be a tremendous inspiration. By saying yes to God plan and saying no to sin, she received her heavenly reward, body and soul, immediately upon leaving this world. And that simple, resolute yes changed the history of the world! Would that all of us could do the same: resolve to do God’s will, whatever the cost, and refuse to yield to temptation, however strong.

Of course, we are not immaculately conceived and full of grace — so while it can be inspiring to meditate on Mary, the crown of creation, it can be difficult (and perhaps moreso for a man) to imagine putting ourselves in her shoes and following in her footsteps.

This month, the adult groups will be talking about Saints Peter and Paul. I recently had the chance to show an Orthodox priest and iconographer the great Eastern-style icons in our sanctuary, and I asked why Paul was portrayed in the dome with the other 11 original apostles. He replied that in the Eastern tradition, Peter and Paul always go together: the weak one who denied Christ and became the Rock, and the proud one who persecuted the church and became the great evangelist to the Gentiles. Both men prove that it doesn’t matter who or where we are, what we do, or how much we stray — when at last we are ready to turn to God, He is right there beside us.

The apostles are great examples of the wondrous creations God can make with broken pieces like you and me. With all their imperfections, St. Peter and St. Paul call us to holiness and to persevere in faith — and because they stumbled along the way, they make the path to heaven seem navigable.

Are We Scapegoating the Most Vulnerable Among Us?

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

This past month, the adults in our parish faith formation program discussed Lesson 4 from Fr. Barron’s Catholicism DVD series, “Our Tainted Nature’s Solitary Boast: Mary, the Mother of God.” One of the consistent bits of feedback we heard when we started this video series last year is that sometimes Fr. Barron gets a little academic for the average lay audience — and as a result, the material and discussion questions sometimes miss the mark when it comes to generating discussion. In the case of the lesson on Mary, even the title warranted translation.

I watched most of the Mary video at least six times over the course of the past few weeks, and one part, in particular, stuck out to me as academic and not very applicable to the lives of most Catholics — until I thought about it in a new light.

When Fr. Barron discusses Our Lady of Guadalupe and the impact her appearance to St. Juan Diego made on Mexico, he references a two key facts:

  • The fact is that within 10 years, almost the entire nation converted to Christianity — nine million souls, or roughly 3,000 people a day, every day, for decade turned to Christ.
  • With that conversion, the culture changed fundamentally, and the practice of human sacrifice to appease the gods was eliminated completely.
Then Fr. Barron goes on a brief tangent, discussing philosopher Rene Girard’s cultural theory of the scapegoat mechanism. Briefly, Girard suggests that a dynamic underlies our cultural, social, and personal relationships that serves to restore order during periods of violence or social upheaval by assigning responsibility to a particular victim or victims. The victim is punished, cast out, or killed — and in doing this the society will find itself renewed and unified in common understanding and common purpose.


We see this idea in literature, like the gut-wrenching short story “The Lottery;” in our modern history of wars and genocides; and of course, laid bare in Christ’s crucifixion and in Caiaphas, “who counseled the Jews that it was better that one man should die rather than the people (John 18:14).” Even so, I struggled to relate this theory to our lives today, until I asked myself specifically, “Who do we sacrifice today, and what underlying tension are we trying to resolve?”

It seems to me that we today sacrifice the most vulnerable among us: the unborn, the disabled, the ill, and the dying. If that’s true, to what end do we sacrifice them? 

First, let me say that most people never decide to abort a child or to assist someone in ending their lives — nor would I suggest that those who do aren’t at the end of their ropes and genuinely desperate (though, from a Catholic standpoint, they are sadly misguided). But many of us — even many who consider themselves to be good Catholics — are willing to permit the sacrifice of the vulnerable, at least in some cases. 

Why? I would argue it’s so that we won’t have to suffer with with them.

Let’s face it: most Americans (myself included) have no concept of the way much of the rest of the world lives. Most of us have no stomach for suffering, poverty, or pain. So our society allows human sacrifice and calls it mercy. We do it for the “health of the mother,” or of society, or of the planet. We tell ourselves that we have limited resources, and it’s irresponsible to lavish them on one person, one family, or one nation (never mind that many larger families get by on less, not more, than their small-family peers). Like Caiaphas, we advocate a definite “smaller” evil to avoid an indefinite “bigger” evil. We end their suffering and ours, not by giving of ourselves or sacrificing our present to make a better shared future, but by sacrificing their future — their very lives — so that we may enjoy our present.

This really hit home for me during the recent Life Chain event. Scores of people stood along Hwy 19 between St. Michael and Albertville, holding signs and praying silently for an end to abortion — and for the courage and will to do what is necessary to bring about that peaceful end. It is an uncomfortable experience to stand, exposed and silent, for an hour, confronting one’s neighbors with the evil we permit to occur so that we may live comfortably — but even moreso, perhaps, for the passersby. One young man slowed his car in the lane nearest me, looked hard into my eyes, and pumped his thick middle finger at me — watching me over his shoulder as he passed, for emphasis. I prayed him over the hill and out of sight.

Why so much anger? Because the natural fruit of evil is guilt, suffering, and death. It’s easy to allow death in the abstract, but to be confronted with it, not in anger but in charity, hurts.

Blessed Mother, pray for us, that by your example we will say yes to God, whatever the cost, and that we may suffer well ourselves so that the vulnerable may be spared. Amen.

Book Break, Feast of the Archangels Edition: Tobit’s Dog

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For those of you who recall our wedding (or those who have heard Jodi and me speak at the engaged couples retreats around these parts), you may remember that the only detail I was specific about in the ceremony was the Old Testament reading, from the Book of Tobit, Chapter 8, verses 4-8. The back story, about the faithful but afflicted Tobit, his son Tobiah, a long-lost kinsman, and a cursed young bride, is retold in the novel Tobit’s Dog by Michael N. Richard.

Richard re-sets this ancient story as a mystery of sorts, set in the rural South during the Depression, and opens with a vignette of the titular canine visiting a local dump with his master, who is looking for discarded furniture to repair and sell. The dog is torn between the lure of his senses and the love of his master, but ultimately, chooses to follow and obey and is rewarded for it. It’s a compelling analogy to our relationship with God — but I was nervous: if the entire book were written in this way, it could be heavy-handed.

Thankfully, it isn’t. Instead, the opening scene sets the theme for the rest of the book, in which all of the major characters are conflicted in some way and are either moving toward their Master or further away.

Though the story is told in an easy and often humorous style, the subject matter is dark — the apparent mutilation and lynching of a teenage boy, rape and racism, and a tragic family cycle of alcoholism and abuse all figure into the tale, as does spiritual warfare as conducted by the old man’s unusual dog and a talented and world-wise traveling musician who may be Tobit’s cousin but doesn’t seem to be from “around here.”

It is a Catholic book, featuring Catholic characters living their Catholic faith, but you don’t have to be Catholic, or even Christian, to follow the tale or enjoy it — and in fact, nearly all of the characters find themselves questioning their faith and why bad things happen to good folks. As a bonus, for those who know the Book of Tobit or the three archangels named in Scripture and celebrated today, there is a strong connection between the book and today’s feast — but that’s probably more fun to uncover after the fact. As for the novel, I recommend it highly!

Top 10 Highlights Of Camp Lebanon 2012

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

http://www.facebook.com/v/3953178462416
Rose’s zip line ride: see number 5, below…

Every year for the past five or so, Jodi and I and the kids have joined 30 or so families from St. Michael’s and St. Albert’s parishes at a camp near Upsala, Minnesota, called Camp Lebanon. The first year I didn’t want to go, a) because with a dining hall, water toys, and showers, it wasn’t really camping; b) because I was going to be surrounded by kids not my own; and c) because I didn’t feel like I knew enough people and wasn’t looking forward to being “on” all weekend.

All true observations…none of which had any impact on my actual enjoyment of the weekend. We’ve been going back ever since, and even organized it a couple of years.

No time to do a complete recap of the weekend, but here are the Top 10 Highlights:

10. Not My Job! I had hoped to be done with my work early on Friday so we could be on the road by 3 p.m. or so. Not even close, and when 4 p.m. rolled around and I was still packing, my blood pressure started to rise.

Then I remembered: We’re not running things this year. We can get up there any time before tomorrow, and it’s all good.

Turns out we made it in plenty of time for Friday evening activities — and with Lily this year, it’s a good thing we weren’t the organizers! Kudos to Sustaceks, Duerrs, and Fredricksons for a great weekend!

9. New Faces. We missed a number of dear friends who weren’t there…but there were so many new families, too, that you couldn’t help but make new connections. I met potential homebrewers, Axis and Allies enthusiasts, future KCs, and just all-around good guys — hopefully next year the old and the new will all show up, and then some!

8. Albany Invasion. Albany, Minnesota, is the last stop for food on the way to the camp. A gas station just off the freeway houses A&W, Subway, Godfather’s Pizza, Taco John’s, and Chester’s Fried Chicken counters under one roof — and Friday afternoon, it hosted nearly every family bound for Camp Lebanon in constant rotation. I’m sure the locals had to be wondering about the volume of strangers greeting each other with hugs and handshakes.

7. Has Anyone Seen… Once we settle in at camp, the kids are off and running with their friends. Jodi and I ate with grown-ups and Lily, and generally soaked up the weekend, only rousing ourselves occasionally to ask around, “Has anyone seen [CHILD’S NAME HERE]?” And we were hardly the only ones.

6. Holy Spirit at Work. More than once, someone stopped to share that the weekend itself, or something someone did or said, was just what they needed — that the Holy Spirit was at work last weekend. But the most striking example came on Sunday morning, when one of my own overextended children decided to disobey Jodi and run off to play with friends. I confronted the child and had a long talk about the responsibilities that come with being family — and I thought it sunk in. Only a few minutes later, a local seminarian, Paul, offered a scripture reflection in which he talked about how family is diminished when one person acts selfishly — and I looked over to see wide, staring, glassy eyes. I asked about it later, and was told, “I heard him and I was like, “Seriously?!” Wow.

5. Zip Line! I watched two grown men race over a wooded ravine, brazen in their talk but white in their knuckles. I watched our priest and seminarian zip through the tree tops — Father was pounding his chest; Paul was all smiles and thumbs up. But best of all, I watched Emma nervously strap up after watching the men, whimpering and sighing a bit under her breath; watched her set out across the ravine tentatively, and watched her slide back over, screaming and giggling, barely able to speak “That was awesome!” to the camera. She is the only Thorp to have done it so far. She deserves applause.

4. Dating Survey. A few friends began asking an unofficial survey question of the couples at camp: “Do you and your spouse go on dates?” Jodi said, “Not really.” I said, “Occasionally.” Then we both said, “Unless running errands or getting groceries alone together count.” The ruling came back: if we are specifically going together and leaving the kids behind, it counts. Oh, yes, we are still romantic!

3. Early Morning Run. Brendan rose at 6:45 a.m. on a Saturday to go running with a few of the guys from school — and a few girls. I rose a little after 7, and when I emerged from the bathhouse, they were coming the hill from the lake: four or five girls, graceful and light on their feet, and two clomping boys bringing up the rear. Turns out the girls were all cross-country runners, and the two wrestlers were the only boys motivated enough to get up that early. What motivated them to keep pace with the fleet-footed young ladies over two or three miles? I’m going with sheer stubborn pride…though at that age, who can guess? (For an alternative explanation, see the video below…)

2. Family Prayer. Family rosaries each night, and Saturday evening mass with sunbaked parents and waterlogged kids doing their best to be reverent. Families praying together with families. There’s nothing better, except…

1. Serenading Lily. Every year we listen to The White Stripes on the way to the camp. This year Lily was fussing until the guitars and drums kicked in, and, to a person, all four of her siblings began to sing to her.

Wish I could’ve recorded them doing it — leaning over her car seat, almost in harmony, and her grinning, gasping, laughing face. She’s pretty good-looking (for a girl).

No Greater Gift

/ J. Thorp / 8 Comments

Amen, amen, I say to you, when you were younger, you used to dress yourself and go where you wanted; but when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go.— John 21:18

Some years ago I brought our son Brendan, then in grade school, to work with me for the day. Among other activities that day, he drew a picture for a dear friend of my own dear friend Patty — a young man who had recently enrolled at United States Military Academy My son had already been thinking for some time about a career in the military, and it excited him to know that there were colleges specifically geared toward such things. He sent the drawing and his best wishes to West Point, and began to shape his own dreams around the U.S. Naval Academy and the Marine Corps.

Over Memorial Day weekend, Patty was herself at West Point for her young friend’s graduation and commissioning. She shared photos with us from throughout the weekend, and the boy who left home four years ago has become very much a fine young man, fit and confident, dashing in his India whites. Brendan was impressed.

I remember once sharing with a different colleague that Brendan hoped to be a Marine one day. His response? “Well, at least you have a few years to talk him out of that…”

As Brendan prepares to enter high school in the fall, I think more frequently about the possibility that he could be called to combat one day, and it frightens me. But someone has to do this job, and if he is called, who am I to refuse to let him answer, when I have benefited so much from the lives of those who have gone before?

* * * * *

Around the same time that Brendan was drawing that picture, Gabe began seriously contemplating the priesthood. Admittedly, at age seven or so, seriously contemplating may be defined rather loosely — but  today he is approaching his twelfth birthday and has not wavered. This spring, recognizing that I hadn’t spent much one-on-one time with Gabe in recent months, I offered a day in which we could do whatever he wanted. As a result, we found ourselves at Sunday morning Mass at St. John Vianney Seminary in St. Paul, at the end of which Fr. Michael, the rector and our former pastor, introduced him as “a future priest, Father Gabriel.” We were greeted by a dozen or so seminarians afterward, including a couple from our neck of the woods, then we went to brunch with Father.

During brunch Father and I both made an effort to include Gabe in the conversation, but several times the discussion turned to more “grown-up” topics: men’s evangelization, stewardship, work and home life. I apologized to Gabe on the way home for not doing a better job of steering the conversation to include him.

“It’s not a problem,” he said. “I learn a lot listening to you guys talk.”

I see him, hear him, in these situations, and think he’s serious about this vocation. Father thinks he is, too. I’ve written about this before … and a friend characterized the religious life, in her view, as a sort of “performance art,” which I took to mean richly symbolic and interesting, but ultimately strange, impractical, and somewhat meaningless. Needless to say, I disagree.

* * * * *

A year or more ago, an an older man I know learned that these two sons of mine aspired to the military and the priesthood. “How old are they?” he asked, and when I answered, said, “That says something, that they are thinking seriously about service at such an early age. You must be proud.”

I am. And frightened. For both of them.

Then yesterday a mutual friend of Patty’s and mine stopped me in a stairwell at the university to ask how the long weekend was. “And what’d you think of Patty’s photos?” she asked.

I told her they hit me hard, in a way I hadn’t expected. Those photos, coupled with Memorial Day and the knowledge that two priest-friends of mine are being reassigned to new parishes (our associate pastor is one; Prairie Father is the other), made me think not only about service and sacrifice, which are hard but noble things, but also about obedience, which for Americans, it seems, and men in particular, can be tougher to stomach.

Both of my older sons currently feel called to a life I don’t believe I could lead — a life of obedience in which the very clothing they wear will publicly signify that they are subject to a higher authority and held to a higher standard. Should they continue on their respective paths, they will be scrutinized and criticized; assigned relentless, sometimes monotonous, work; bear impossible burdens; and pour out their life-blood, figuratively and possibly literally, for people who may or may not appreciate or acknowledge their sacrifice.

This alone would be too much to wrap my air-conditioned, pillow-padded mind around…and then I think of the confidence our leaders inspire in me. Am I confident that my oldest son won’t be sent marching into Hell for political gain? I am not. Am I confident my middle son will be able to shepherd his flock without getting crosswise of a government and a society who has little use for Truth and even less for faith? Not at all.

And they will be expected to serve, to sacrifice, to obey, regardless. I don’t know if I would be strong enough to do that. I pray to God that my sons are better men than their father.

* * * * *

In addition to observing Memorial Day, we’ve also celebrated the Feasts of the Ascension and Pentecost — Christ’s Great Commission before returning to His heavenly Father and the descent of the Holy Spirit so the disciples could carry out that commission. On Ascension Sunday, our deacon spoke in terms of graduation to describe the bittersweetness of Jesus’s departure, and it makes sense: Christ Himself was “graduating” from his earthly ministry to assume his true heavenly kingship, but so, too, were the Apostles about to leave behind what they knew (or thought they knew) before to answer a deeper call and become something greater still — a new Body of Christ on Earth.

Then on Pentecost, our associate pastor related the story of his ordination as a transitional deacon (on the way to priestly ordination) — how, in our archdiocese, those seminarians being ordained begin in the pews seated next to their families, then at a certain point, are called forward before the altar and “never return again.” They are no longer the men they once were, but are public persons and servants of Christ.

Reflecting on his words brought to mind a Scripture passage that has often troubled me:

And another said, “I will follow you, Lord, but first let me say farewell to my family at home.” [To him] Jesus said, “No one who sets a hand to the plow and looks to what was left behind is fit for the kingdom of God.” — Luke 9:61-62

In the past this passage has felt almost heartless, but in the context of Father’s story, it began to make sense to me.

Once we are called to something — a vocation, an act of love, and opportunity in life to do real good and to do it well, we should act immediately and rejoice in doing so. As believers, in particular, we should have confidence that God is working for the good of all, and that not one of His sheep will be lost or wasted. In this light, my sons should rush headlong into the unknown, provided they are heeding the Master’s call.

The road that stretches before the feet of a man is a challenge to his heart long before it tests the strength of his legs. Our destiny is to run to the edge of the world and beyond, off into the darkness: sure for all our blindness, secure for all our helplessness, strong for all our weakness, gaily in love for all the pressure on our hearts. — My Way of Life: The Summa Simplified

Go get ’em, boys.