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Mourning Francis

Mourning Francis

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Catholics around the world woke to the news that just hours after celebrating Easter at the Vatican, Pope Francis died early this morning. He had been ailing, of course, and recently hospitalized. But like many, I hoped he was out of the woods and would be with us a few more years.

I remember the excitement that greeted his papacy. Here was the first pope from Latin America, a pontiff who chose to name himself after Saint Francis, patron of the poor. Here was a leader who shunned the trappings of power and called our attention to immigrants and climate change. Here was a leader who spoke out against war and rampant commercialism.

Though at various points of his papacy Francis irritated both conservative and liberal wings of the church, he broadened the institution, and it feels lonely and frightening without him. So much darkness in the world right now. So little light.

What to do but seek comfort in his message, his hopefulness and the words and example he leaves behind. Rest in peace, Pope Francis.

Bells tolled today in Rome to announce the passing of Pope Francis.

The Final Word

The Final Word

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Last night’s Holy Thursday service included a tradition that my church has instituted, the washing of the feet. Jesus washed the feet of his disciples at that long-ago Passover supper, assuming the role of the lowliest servant, modeling the behavior he asked his followers to share: to serve others.

If only it were as easy as joining the queue to wash and be washed. But it’s increasingly difficult to be a good person, to understand and not judge, to give others a second, third or even fourth chance. We don’t live in easy times. Of course, first-century Jerusalem was no picnic either.

On Good Friday (and other days, too), I like to re-read one of my favorite Michael Gerson columns. Gerson died in November 2022. I often wish he were still alive and writing. He wasn’t afraid to discuss his faith or his struggles — or to be joyously optimistic when the times called for it.

One of those times was Good Friday. Not that things started off well: “It would have seemed that every source of order, justice and comfort — politics, institutional religion, the community, friendship — had been discredited,” Gerson wrote. “It was the cynic’s finest hour.”

And then, he wrote, something happened: “The cynics somehow lost control of the narrative.” Even those who believe the body was moved must admit that “faith in the figure Rome executed has far outlived the Roman empire.” For those who believe, Gerson said, Good Friday and Easter legitimize both despair and faith. But most of all, they remind us that God is on the side of those who suffer, the side of those who hope.

“There is a truth and human existence cannot be contained in a tomb. It is possible to live lightly, even in the face of death — not by becoming hard and strong, but through a confident perseverance. Because cynicism is the failure of patience. Because Good Friday does not have the final word.”

(A holy water font in the Cathedral of Seville in Spain.)

A Prayer for Asheville

A Prayer for Asheville

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As the death toll mounts in North Carolina, I think about the beauty of the place and the terror of the storm. Most of all, I think about the lives lost. More than 100 already confirmed dead; 200 still missing.

We visited Asheville almost two years ago. It was a quick trip sandwiched in between obligations. It was January, and a cold rain fell one of the three days we were there. But despite the weather and the haste, I loved the place: its mountain beauty, its funky vibe.

Now, residents are searching for survivors, digging out homes, queueing for water. At this moment, Asheville is not a resort town; it’s a crisis zone. My heart goes out to all those in Western North Carolina. May you find relief soon.

Sunset in Asheville, January 9, 2023

Immortality

Immortality

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Today, my dear friend Nancy will be laid to rest in the Indiana earth, less than 150 miles from where we first met. But where is she now, really? 

My faith tells me that she is sleeping and will rise in glory on the Last Day. My skeptical self says, “Hmmm…” 

One thing I know for sure: Nancy lives on in the hearts of those who love her. It’s an immortality in which we all can believe — and to which we all can aspire. 

(The Bernini columns in St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, one of many wonders I saw for the first time with Nancy. Photo: Wikipedia)

Family Bibles

Family Bibles

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They hold newspaper clippings, holy cards, photos of babies in long cotton gowns. Century-old flowers crumble in their pages, and their bindings are frayed and worn.

Yesterday I paged through a stack of old family bibles looking for names, dates, relationships. Some of them had elaborate closures; others were falling apart. Some of them gave up their secrets; others did not.

But all of them held the fears and triumphs of mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles, siblings and cousins. They were the ceremonial center of recorded family life. I studied them, photographed them, copied words from their pages. Then I brushed their dust off my hands and came upstairs, to the land of the living.

Worthwhile

Worthwhile

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The rain has stopped, the sun has peeked through the clouds, and I have in mind a piece of music I always hum this time of year: “God So Loved the World,” by John Stainer.

Not knowing much about the composer I looked him up this morning. He’s not as contemporary as I thought. His dates, 1860-1901, mark him as a Victorian through and through.

Though his choral music output was prodigious, nothing much is performed these days except “The Crucifixion,” from which this piece emerged as an Easter and Passiontide favorite. 

Give it a listen, if you have time. Maybe you’ll agree with me that to be remembered for one piece of music — if it were a piece like this — would make an entire life worthwhile. 

Religious Recycling

Religious Recycling

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For years I collected palms from Palm Sunday. I grew up learning that they are a sacramental, something sacred that you can’t just toss in the trash.  I brought them home from church, tucked them up high on a shelf in the closet and there they stayed, collecting dust. 

In the old days, in the homes of an earlier generation of Catholics, I remember them being displayed behind sacred art, paintings of the Sacred Heart, the sorts of iconography I don’t have.

But in the last 10 years or so, my church has put out a call for old palms a few weeks before Lent begins. They burn the palms and use the ashes on Ash Wednesday — a lovely example of religious recycling. 

I was able to shed a large backlog of palms that way. Now, my house is almost palm free. The “almost” is because … I picked up another palm yesterday.

The Sé

The Sé

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We had been in Funchal for a full week before I darkened the door of its main attraction, the cathedral, or Sé. I attended mass there, which featured one only brief reading in English, the rest in Portuguese. But that didn’t matter. I sat (or knelt or stood) and let the experience wash over me: the setting, the music, the piety.

The cathedral was built in the 16th century, and features a carved wooden ceiling made of Madeirian cedar and a gleaming gold altar. The service was beautifully accompanied by a small choir and orchestra in the loft. The worshippers beside me seemed as awed by the place as I was.

At one time, this cathedral oversaw the largest diocese in the world, because it encompassed all of Portugal’s territories in Africa, Asia, North America, South America. A mighty Sé, indeed.

Taizé Prayer

Taizé Prayer

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I’d heard about it for years but usually have a conflict on the night it happens. Last night I didn’t, so I drove to the church in the dark and walked into a shimmering, candlelit chapel that scarcely resembled its everyday self.

There were icons on the altar and candles flickering around the sanctuary, illuminating the rough-hewn brick walls. There were two tables of thin tapers for lighting to elevate your prayer intention. There were many in attendance, but a hush filled the room. 

Taizé is an ecumenical monastic community in France with worship services of repetitive chanted prayer. Its model has become popular around the world. 

We sang in Latin, we sang in English. We were accompanied by piano, organ, violin, oboe and clarinet. The melodies were like plainsong, and in their repetition was the music of the ages.  

Silence punctuated the service: a silent entrance, a silent exit, and a stretch of silence in the middle, time for quiet contemplation — “essential to discovering the heart of prayer,” the handout told me.

I left feeling renewed, inspired, quieted. 

(Photo: courtesy Arlington Catholic Herald.)

Creeping Jenny

Creeping Jenny

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It’s Advent, the season of waiting. But waiting for what? The birth of Christ, the gathering of the clan, the arrival of yet another box from Amazon? Or for a contentment I long for but can’t explain.

Advent is also the season of preparation, not just wrapping gifts and baking cookies but preparing ourselves spiritually. For me, the best way to prepare is to stop waiting and bask in the moment.

Today’s moment is noticing the jaunty upward growth of the Creeping Jenny plant. I’ve been neglecting it, putting it on top of the bookshelf in my office so it would trail down from on high in romantic tendrils, like wisps of hair escaping from a Gibson Girl bun. 

But it gets no sun there, so I moved it yesterday to a free corner of my desk. It already looks healthier, greener, more in sync with its surroundings. I want to be like that plant: well placed and pointing toward the sun.