In my experience as the Church's official witness for nuptial consent, which is admittedly brief, I have observed a disturbing phenomenon. Increasingly, couples are unable to elect a singe Best Man and Maid of Honor. I know, it's awful to have play favorites, and in our PC culture everybody has to be a winner, but this business is a little silly.
To be honest, though, I don't mind the extra person on the bride's side. The way I do things, the Maid of Honor is the hardest worker in the whole ceremony, charged as she is with preventing the bride from falling down the stairs or ruining her makeup with tears, etc. She is responsible for the maintenance of She Who Is High Maintenance, and rightly so, at that moment. So having these two Maids of Honor isn't so bad.
On the other hand, I see no redeeming quality in having two Best Men. The Best Man is charged with two simple but critical tasks: making sure the groom doesn't faint or run away, and producing the rings on demand. Even in my short experience, the question of the rings is fraught with danger. "That's not my ring," said one of my brides once. "It is today!" I responded. To have two Best Men in this job would seem to me a violation of the Airplane Rule. Complexity increases the probability of failure. Keep it simple.
Finally, given that this is happening, I want to suggest some changes in nomenclature. There cannot be two Best Men; it is a grammatical absurdity. As St. Paul reminds us, though all the athletes compete, only one can win the prize, just as he also said that it is better to marry than to be on fire. Like Tyler Durden, St. Paul is full of useful information. If there are two of them, I say they are to be called Better Men.
The same goes for the girls, though perhaps with less force. I say we call them Honored Maids.
April 30, 2010
April 29, 2010
Walking
I've always been a walker. Wherever I live I always fall into set paths: Prospect St. to Ogden St. to Edgehill Rd. in New Haven. The main road through Connecticut College down to the lonely back of Cummings Arts Center and back over South Lot to the far road. Down the River Corrib path to Galway Cathedral and back home on Newcastle. Up Waterman to Thayer and down to Wickenden, where all the coolest spots in Providence could be found. Up the white trail to the 'stop sign' blazed red trail at Sleeping Giant. Down Fulton St. to Euclid Ave. on the edge of Queens. Up Mass Ave. past Porter Square past John the Evangelist to that funny pedestrian path right by the Greek pizzeria that leads all the way to Alewife station, and then back on the T. The big loop of Morsemere down to the Roberts Ave. in Yonkers, a stop at Christ the King, and back home on North Broadway.
Somehow my walking provides for me an intersection of freedom, contemplation, and solitude. At least that's what one of my best spiritual directors once suggested.
I bring this all up because it has become for me an example of how God redeems our personalities and natural peculiarities for His own purposes. Here in the parish ministry, my walking has done a lot for me. I almost never drive anywhere if it's not too far to walk, given the time I have. One result of this is that I not only run into parishioners, but I get to know the sort of folks who hang out in the streets. It makes me feel more connected to the people, gives me opportunities to ask about their concerns, and gives that much more specificity to my prayer for the intentions of the people of the parish.
This is the sort of plain reflection that gives me a little bit more confidence and clarity in my own vocation as a friar and a priest. I can see God making use of me in my own particularity. It's easy to see the Holy Spirit making use of one's talents and strengths, but when He is discerned to be making a redemptive use even of one's eccentricities or random habits, it reveals the depths of the gentle salvation of God.
Somehow my walking provides for me an intersection of freedom, contemplation, and solitude. At least that's what one of my best spiritual directors once suggested.
I bring this all up because it has become for me an example of how God redeems our personalities and natural peculiarities for His own purposes. Here in the parish ministry, my walking has done a lot for me. I almost never drive anywhere if it's not too far to walk, given the time I have. One result of this is that I not only run into parishioners, but I get to know the sort of folks who hang out in the streets. It makes me feel more connected to the people, gives me opportunities to ask about their concerns, and gives that much more specificity to my prayer for the intentions of the people of the parish.
This is the sort of plain reflection that gives me a little bit more confidence and clarity in my own vocation as a friar and a priest. I can see God making use of me in my own particularity. It's easy to see the Holy Spirit making use of one's talents and strengths, but when He is discerned to be making a redemptive use even of one's eccentricities or random habits, it reveals the depths of the gentle salvation of God.
April 28, 2010
Phreaking, Reminiscing, and Googling
I spent much of today in a state of under-productivity due to having to wait around for the phone guy, who never came. I have quite a few irons in the fire with Verizon right now; two old POTS lines that mysteriously ring busy when called, and another account which they have turned over to collection for a phone line I have never been able to find or determine has ever been in service. We should have got rid of all this old cruft when we put in the T-1, but I digress into phreaky rant.
Anyway, in my idleness, I was thinking about Confirmation last night and thought back to my own Confirmation. I was twenty years old and a junior in college. I was appended to the year's crop of ordinary confirmandi at the parish near school. At the time they seemed like kids; there's a big difference between twenty and fourteen. But time softens age gaps, and today I was thinking about how my Confirmation classmates must all be around thirty-two by now. I wondered what had happened to them; if any had become famous or infamous, or entered religious life or the priesthood. I took out the program from that night and googled them. Almost all had Facebook profiles. One was a professor of government somewhere. One had been arrested for some kind of tax problem with his restaurant.
So I prayed for all of us, for the continued grace of the Spirit in our journey, the Confirmation class of Our Lady of Perpetual Help, Quaker Hill, Connecticut, December 11th, 1992
Anyway, in my idleness, I was thinking about Confirmation last night and thought back to my own Confirmation. I was twenty years old and a junior in college. I was appended to the year's crop of ordinary confirmandi at the parish near school. At the time they seemed like kids; there's a big difference between twenty and fourteen. But time softens age gaps, and today I was thinking about how my Confirmation classmates must all be around thirty-two by now. I wondered what had happened to them; if any had become famous or infamous, or entered religious life or the priesthood. I took out the program from that night and googled them. Almost all had Facebook profiles. One was a professor of government somewhere. One had been arrested for some kind of tax problem with his restaurant.
So I prayed for all of us, for the continued grace of the Spirit in our journey, the Confirmation class of Our Lady of Perpetual Help, Quaker Hill, Connecticut, December 11th, 1992
Overheard: Homiletic Arithmetic FTW
Last night was Confirmation. It's always a joyful night, and it's good to see so many of our young people completing their sacramental initiation. In the sacristy, while we were preparing for the procession, the bishop was playing with the altar servers, asking each of them in turn if they would like to preach the Mass. All but one shyly declined the opportunity.
Then the bishop came to one girl who had herself been confirmed the year before.
"Would you like to give the homily?" he asked.
"Sure," she exclaimed, "1 + 1 = 3!"
She was referring to a part of the homily from the previous year, at her own Confirmation Mass, in which the bishop warned the confirmandi of the dangers of premarital sex and teen pregnancy. Get it? 1 + 1 = 3.
The bishop was startled and taken aback that his homily, at least in part, had been remembered. We parish staff were proud, of course. Not accepting the calling of his bluff, however, the bishop did preach the Mass himself, and even used the "1 + 1 = 3" bit once again.
Then the bishop came to one girl who had herself been confirmed the year before.
"Would you like to give the homily?" he asked.
"Sure," she exclaimed, "1 + 1 = 3!"
She was referring to a part of the homily from the previous year, at her own Confirmation Mass, in which the bishop warned the confirmandi of the dangers of premarital sex and teen pregnancy. Get it? 1 + 1 = 3.
The bishop was startled and taken aback that his homily, at least in part, had been remembered. We parish staff were proud, of course. Not accepting the calling of his bluff, however, the bishop did preach the Mass himself, and even used the "1 + 1 = 3" bit once again.
April 27, 2010
Grief
This morning I offered a funeral Mass for a baby. He had two days in this life.
The grief and shock, the tragic wrongness of the whole thing, the pitiful little coffin, it was all so sad.
At the cemetery, while I was waiting for the funeral director to take me back to the friary, I started to think about God's Heart. Take the sadness of this funeral today and multiply it times just the children killed by abortion in one day, and that's a look into the Heart of God.
May he rest in peace.
The grief and shock, the tragic wrongness of the whole thing, the pitiful little coffin, it was all so sad.
At the cemetery, while I was waiting for the funeral director to take me back to the friary, I started to think about God's Heart. Take the sadness of this funeral today and multiply it times just the children killed by abortion in one day, and that's a look into the Heart of God.
May he rest in peace.
April 26, 2010
Getting There
The other day I finished the Holy Father's doctoral habilitation The Theology of History in St. Bonaventure (in translation), and I have to say that I really enjoyed it. It's a 'page turner.' If you've ever wondered how someone like Bonaventure could preserve the eschatological edge of Franciscanism by correcting the excesses of Joachim of Fiore and his early receptors, and by making a subtle Christological shift of Christ from eschatological end to center of creation, then this is the book for you.
Having an argument about Christ as end and/or center might not seem to matter, but I think it does. As Christians, we need to recover our eschatology. We have lost, to some degree, our sense that the world as a whole and we as individuals are on a linear pilgrimage of which this life is only a part. The loss of this sense has hampered us in our senses of both life and death.
In the area where I work, aimlessness is one of the larger pastoral and human problems I see. It seems like a lot of young men die here; guys in their 30s or 40s who never really got going in life and who often fall into alcohol and drug abuse. I feel for them because I can see that it's hard here. There isn't much to do. Unless you're a schoolteacher, cop, join the fire department or work for the casino, or unless you have the wherewithal to get a job in the City and commute, there isn't much left. I sometimes wonder if preaching with an eschatological edge would help. I don't mean that I would get up and preach the fear of hell, but explain the good news that our human lives have some urgency to them; that we are live lives that become less revisable each day and through which we decide who we want to be in eternity. Not that this is a matter of fear. It is the stuff of opportunity, and when we put ourselves to it we find peace and joy because we are aligning ourselves with the fundamental movements of the entire creation. Purposefulness of life is harmony with the pilgrim creation.
Our lack of eschatological consciousness also reveals itself in how we handle death. It's why funerals have become 'celebrations of life' rather than offerings of prayer and sacrifice for someone at a turning point in their ongoing journey. It's why Mass intentions have become opportunities to memorialize the dead rather than to pray for them. Many priests wouldn't dream of using anything but white as the liturgical color for funerals. I have nothing against white, which is the right and dignity of all the baptized, but doesn't making the option for white in funerals into an unassailable norm betray a little bit of presumption?
Having an argument about Christ as end and/or center might not seem to matter, but I think it does. As Christians, we need to recover our eschatology. We have lost, to some degree, our sense that the world as a whole and we as individuals are on a linear pilgrimage of which this life is only a part. The loss of this sense has hampered us in our senses of both life and death.
In the area where I work, aimlessness is one of the larger pastoral and human problems I see. It seems like a lot of young men die here; guys in their 30s or 40s who never really got going in life and who often fall into alcohol and drug abuse. I feel for them because I can see that it's hard here. There isn't much to do. Unless you're a schoolteacher, cop, join the fire department or work for the casino, or unless you have the wherewithal to get a job in the City and commute, there isn't much left. I sometimes wonder if preaching with an eschatological edge would help. I don't mean that I would get up and preach the fear of hell, but explain the good news that our human lives have some urgency to them; that we are live lives that become less revisable each day and through which we decide who we want to be in eternity. Not that this is a matter of fear. It is the stuff of opportunity, and when we put ourselves to it we find peace and joy because we are aligning ourselves with the fundamental movements of the entire creation. Purposefulness of life is harmony with the pilgrim creation.
Our lack of eschatological consciousness also reveals itself in how we handle death. It's why funerals have become 'celebrations of life' rather than offerings of prayer and sacrifice for someone at a turning point in their ongoing journey. It's why Mass intentions have become opportunities to memorialize the dead rather than to pray for them. Many priests wouldn't dream of using anything but white as the liturgical color for funerals. I have nothing against white, which is the right and dignity of all the baptized, but doesn't making the option for white in funerals into an unassailable norm betray a little bit of presumption?
April 25, 2010
Sundays and Celibacy
Today was one of those Sundays when I both open the church in the morning and close it in the afternoon.
At six this morning I went to the church to set up for the first Mass. Once I had everything set up, there was almost enough light to offer Morning Prayer, so I made my meditation first and then opened my breviary. All this before turning on the lights or opening the church. (As anyone learns fast, you can't open the church too early in the morning, because no matter how early it is, someone will start coming at that time and then resent you when it's locked.) It's such a privileged solitude to sit, locked in and alone with the Blessed Sacrament and the paschal candle in the dim, early morning natural light. I am unworthy of the privilege of being able to pray this way.
Then I open up and everything gears up. I offer two Masses in a row, have a break, and then have four babies to baptize. In the course of the day I probably greet a couple hundred people. I promise to pray for all kinds of intentions, sign bulletins for children and sponsor forms for adults. I bless a couple of rosaries, and hear reports from retreats.
Then, at about four in the afternoon, having wrapped up the baptismal paperwork and some other random stuff to get ahead on the week, I go back to the church and find it empty once again. I grab the arcane set of keys that open the poor boxes and the vigil candle donations. I collect all of the crumpled money and put in the right bags. All quiet. I check the holy water bucket and decide that it can get through the week. (I don't know what people do with it, and maybe I don't want to know. We go through several gallons a week.) Then I put off the lights, lock up, and sit down again in the solitude to offer Evening Prayer. I'm back where I started, there in the dark with my breviary and my Lord. Before the Our Father I try to remember all of the intentions I was given today; a complicated pregnancy, a blood test tomorrow, another young man who said, "Please pray for my attitude."
I know I repeat myself and write about this over and over, but it continues to strike me at deeper levels: the starkness of the shift from intense social-ness to total solitude in the life of priestly ministry. The day begins and ends with solitary prayer in the sacred space of this church, but in between the same space is filled with people and noise and music and prayers.
It speaks to me of celibacy. It isn't a life of separation from people. On the contrary, I feel very embedded in the fabric of this community and its neighborhoods. But what I offer in all those relationships begins and ends with the God I meet in my solitude. Whatever I have to offer emerges from this mysterious and exclusive intimacy that I clumsily call prayer. It is an exclusive Relationship, for sure, but an exclusivity that wants to become fruitful, if that makes any sense. Maybe I'm not saying it right. I'm pretty tired.
At six this morning I went to the church to set up for the first Mass. Once I had everything set up, there was almost enough light to offer Morning Prayer, so I made my meditation first and then opened my breviary. All this before turning on the lights or opening the church. (As anyone learns fast, you can't open the church too early in the morning, because no matter how early it is, someone will start coming at that time and then resent you when it's locked.) It's such a privileged solitude to sit, locked in and alone with the Blessed Sacrament and the paschal candle in the dim, early morning natural light. I am unworthy of the privilege of being able to pray this way.
Then I open up and everything gears up. I offer two Masses in a row, have a break, and then have four babies to baptize. In the course of the day I probably greet a couple hundred people. I promise to pray for all kinds of intentions, sign bulletins for children and sponsor forms for adults. I bless a couple of rosaries, and hear reports from retreats.
Then, at about four in the afternoon, having wrapped up the baptismal paperwork and some other random stuff to get ahead on the week, I go back to the church and find it empty once again. I grab the arcane set of keys that open the poor boxes and the vigil candle donations. I collect all of the crumpled money and put in the right bags. All quiet. I check the holy water bucket and decide that it can get through the week. (I don't know what people do with it, and maybe I don't want to know. We go through several gallons a week.) Then I put off the lights, lock up, and sit down again in the solitude to offer Evening Prayer. I'm back where I started, there in the dark with my breviary and my Lord. Before the Our Father I try to remember all of the intentions I was given today; a complicated pregnancy, a blood test tomorrow, another young man who said, "Please pray for my attitude."
I know I repeat myself and write about this over and over, but it continues to strike me at deeper levels: the starkness of the shift from intense social-ness to total solitude in the life of priestly ministry. The day begins and ends with solitary prayer in the sacred space of this church, but in between the same space is filled with people and noise and music and prayers.
It speaks to me of celibacy. It isn't a life of separation from people. On the contrary, I feel very embedded in the fabric of this community and its neighborhoods. But what I offer in all those relationships begins and ends with the God I meet in my solitude. Whatever I have to offer emerges from this mysterious and exclusive intimacy that I clumsily call prayer. It is an exclusive Relationship, for sure, but an exclusivity that wants to become fruitful, if that makes any sense. Maybe I'm not saying it right. I'm pretty tired.
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