‘All Work and No Play…”

I can remember not even wanting to go. Rachel, my wife, thought it would be a good idea to take the kids to one of the “Great Adventure” theme parks. We were liv­ing in Texas where I was a graduate professor, and I wanted to stay home and let the kids escape the heat wave in the backyard kiddy pool. I had rigged up a sliding board so that Patrick and Kayla could slip and slide into the cool water. The kids were happy. I was happy. I had my lounge chair and my radio. What else could we possibly want?

But Rachel insisted we load up the car and head for Dallas for two days of amusement park rides and side­shows. Of course, the kids were all in favor of it. They had everything they needed right in their own backyard, hut they agreed to ride for two hours in a cramped car to an overcrowded carnival, stand in long lines to ride the “Texas Giant” roller-coaster, and risk getting sick on overpriced food and drinks. Go figure! It was a conspir­acy: three votes in favor of two days of overheated, amusement park madness, and one vote in favor of a quiet, cool, relaxed vacation at home.

The park was everything I feared it would be. Double-digit tickets that put a huge dent in my wallet; unreason­ably expensive souvenirs; and parking that cost an arm and a leg. (Shouldn’t parking be included in the price of the ticket?) Well, I was letting everything get to me, and must admit I was becoming increasingly more difficult to be around.

Rachel pulled me over to the side so the kids couldn’t hear. “Quit being such a ‘grumpy-bear’, Michael,” she whispered. “We’re missing out on all the fun. Maybe we could be doing something else—cheaper. But open your eyes. You are spoiling it for your children.”

She was right.

So I decided to get “in gear” and show my family how to have a good time. I really got crazy. I rode the bumper cars. I ate cotton candy. Then we rode the “Texas Giant.”

Changing my attitude saved the weekend. By letting go and loosening up I gave my family permission to relax and have a good time, too. Instead of three against one, we were now unified and freed-up to enjoy life together.

It’s true that, as fathers, we have the power to set the tone. If we’re enjoying life, chances are our families will too. So much of what will be our children’s experience grow­ing up is dependent upon our own attitude. I’ve met a lot of dads who take life too seriously, perhaps even take themselves too seriously. They find it hard to relax. They’re always worried about looking professional or be­ing “adult.” Their kids become uptight, too. And an up­tight kid grows up to be a very rigid adult.

Back when Patrick was a preschooler, I’d come home from work and it was time to play. He’d grab my hand and we’d run into his bedroom and get under the bed—we were hiding from dinosaurs! It was awkward at times when one of my students from the university would show up and my suit would be a rumpled mess from be­ing under Patrick’s bed—but hey, that’s just part of being a daddy!

I remember the time I asked my father to watch Pat­rick for a few minutes while Rachel and I went next door. When we got back, neither of them was in sight. As we searched the house I heard faint laughter coming from my son’s room. I swung open the closet door and found my father, holding Patrick’s hand in the dark.

“Dad, what are you doing?” I asked.

“Pterodactyls, Michael! Pterodactyls!” he replied.

How many men do you know who need to lighten up and get a life? It is important to know how to have fun. Developing your children’s creativity and spontaneity will help them enjoy life, as well as prepare them to be fun persons to be around. You have a big hand in teaching your son or daughter how to meet life’s challenges with good humor and a carefree attitude. And, there’s no better time to start moving from “Humbug Dad” to “Fun-filled Father” than this Christmas and into the New Year! So, grab your red Santa cap, load the kids in the car, and sleigh down the first snow-capped hill you see—singing, “Jingle Bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way…!”

It All Begins At Home

Fr O'Donnell

This column first appeared in the “Colorado Catholic Herald”, Family Matters, where I tried to reflect upon the importance of our families to the well-being of society—it’s true, “As the family goes, so goes America!”  It all begins at home. 

Home, after all, should be our first thought of the day; just after a hot cup of coffee, of course.  I once had a professor in graduate school who joked that he couldn’t believe in God until after his first gulp of “joe”.  But, I digress.

Dr. Armand Nicholi, a faculty member at Harvard Medical School, draws an important parallel between the emotional health of the family and the stability of future generations in an article in Christianity Today.  “Early family experience,” he writes, “determines our adult character structure, the inner picture we harbor of ourselves, how we see others and feel about them, our concept of right and wrong, and our capacity to establish the close, warm, sustained relationships necessary to have a family of our own.”  Boy, is he ever right!

Take the Beatles, for example.  In one interview in Newsweek with Paul McCartney, titled “The Family Man,” Paul talks about years earlier having played cowboys and Indians with John Lennon’s son, Julian.  After all the “bang-bang, you’re dead” play, Lennon pulled McCartney over and asked, “How do you do that?”  John was uncomfortable with his own son.  “I couldn’t tell him,” Paul confesses.  “You either know how to do that stuff or you don’t.”  Paul McCartney, like Dr. Nicholi, is right, too!

So much of what we do as adults we learned watching our own parents as kids.  That’s why creating a good parent-child relationship is so important.  From the interview with Paul McCartney we learn that his upbringing made him “comfortable with children.”  His folks rolled on the ground with him, took him hiking through the woods, and—you bet!—played cowboys and Indians with him on a regular basis.  As the saying goes, “One good parent is worth a hundred school-masters.”  Now grown and with children of his own, Paul McCartney knows how it’s done.

The Bible says it best: “Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it” (Proverbs 22:6).  The problem is, when citing this proverb, we usually highlight only the positive applications of the verse—like Paul McCartney being played with as a child and now as an adult playing with his own children.  But what about John Lennon?  We need to keep in mind that some kinds of training can have a negative effect as well.

Consider the generational effects of alcoholism.  An adult can have the tendencies of an alcoholic even though they’ve never taken a drop of alcohol.  How is that possible?  If they were raised in a home where one or both parents were alcoholic it’s possible they could have, as an adult, the psychological and emotional makeup of an alcoholic.  This is the negative application of this ancient proverb: Train up a child in the emotional and behavioral ways of an alcoholic and when he is older he will not turn or depart from being an alcoholic.  

That’s why the home—where we prepare our sons and daughters for life—is so important.  We need to understand the dangers of a do-as-I-say-but-not-as-I-do style of parenting.  We also need to consider the rewards of a job well done. 

The good news is that God doesn’t leave you on our own.  Because your children are a gift from the Lord (see Psalm 127:3), God intended you, and no one else, to train them up!  He gave you special resources—the Bible, prayer, and the Church and sacraments, to name a few—to aid you in your parenting task. 

And, starting today, the Colorado Catholic Herald is making available to you some biblical and psychological advice.  Thus, in the articles that follow, it will be my sincere desire to aid you, too, in making your family matter.  Therefore, may God richly bless you as you read on. Most importantly, may He help you to have the right kind of home –“on earth as it is in heaven” (Matthew 6:10).

Double Trouble*

"Double Trouble"

One teen at a time, please, is the hope held out by every parent in America. After all, it’s hard enough raising one thirteen-year-old, but two? Forget it!

My parents had no choice, however. God had blessed them (or burdened them, depending upon your point of view) with identical twin boys, me and my brother, Richard. We were nicknamed “double trouble,” a well-earned title that stuck with us throughout high school.

When we were young, Richard and I were so alike that even my father could not tell us apart. To discipline us, my father would shout our names until we both assembled at his feet. Then, pointing to one of us, he would ask, “Now, which one are you? Michael or Richard?” Soon after the discovery of the correct twin to be punished, a penalty for wrongdoing would begin.

Well, it didn’t take me long to figure out that, since my father couldn’t tell us apart, aiding him in his apparent disabil­ity only quickened the inevitable spanking and lecture that followed. A new strategy was necessary. At this point, I need to tell you that my mother would help my father by writing the name of the twin to be disciplined on a note pad next to the kitchen phone. When my father would come home late from work, he’d simply read the name of the disobedient twin, climb the stairs to the second floor, and pull me (who always slept on the top bunk) or my brother (who slept on the bottom) from our deep sleep to administer justice. This, by the way, added a whole new dimension to the words, “Wait till your father gets home!”

To continue the story: One day when I was eight years old, I broke a living-room lamp. I had been told to stay a safe dis­tance from the lamp to avoid just such an accident, but I had disobeyed. I was in need of reproach. So my mother wrote my name on the infamous pad of paper. After dinner and a bath, Richard and I were sent upstairs to bed. Awake on the top bunk, I awaited my doom. And then it struck me! If only I could get Richard to sleep on the top bunk.

Because we were avid fans of the hit TV show “The Adven­tures of Superman,” I decided to arouse my brother’s curiosity by pretending to be “the Man of Steel.” With the top bunk creating the illusion of flying over the great Metropolis, I said in low tones (but loud enough for my brother to hear), “Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings with a single bound . . . it’s SUPER­MAN!”

“Hey, what are you doing?” he asked.

“Nothing, just go to sleep,” I replied.

“No, tell me. Tell me.”

Baiting him, I continued: “I’m pretending to be Superman, flying over the city. See, by swinging my arms out over the bed, I feel like I’m really in the air. … Da dum … da da da dum . . . Faster than a speeding bullet . . . whee!”

As predicted, Richard began to plead, “Let me play, please.”

“No, only me.”

“Come on! Just for a little while, please.”

“Oh, all right.” I gave in to his request with the one condi­tion that he stay on the top bed for the entire night—some­thing he previously would never do. But tonight he decided to make an exception, and a costly one at that. Why, I could barely contain my laughter as Richard began the Superman antics where I left off.

“More powerful than a locomotive . . . Da dum … da da da da dum.”

It was about ten o’clock when our father came home. I can still remember his footsteps pounding up the stairs and head­ing for our room. The anticipation had kept me awake while my unsuspecting twin had long since fallen asleep. I hid my head under the covers as Richard was hoisted out of bed and tarried downstairs to the spanking and lecture that awaited him. His protestations that night haunt me to this day.

“But I didn’t do anything.” WHACK! “I didn’t do anything.” WHACK! “I didn’t do anything.” WHACK!

As Richard and I got older, sibling rivalry got so intense that we could no longer sleep in the same room at the same lime. My father’s method of discipline had to be updated as well. Rather than try to figure out whose fault it was—that is, which twin first provoked the other—Dad decided both of us would be punished. This was accomplished by placing one twin over his knee at a time and hitting us, only once, with a gun belt, which was as thick as three regular belts! It got our atten­tion.

To further complicate my parents’ bedtime dilemma, I would go to bed in their room, Richard in our room. After the evening news, my parents would take me, the sleeping child, upstairs to where my twin was already fast asleep. The bunk beds had long since been dismantled, and now the two beds were placed at opposite ends of our room. It all worked out rather well and nighttime spankings were quite rare . . . until one night when my mischievous streak reared its ugly head.

Late one evening I found myself awake. I noticed that Rich­ard was restless and every half hour or so would get up to go to the bathroom. It was time to make my move. I decided to make up my bed as if I were still in it—to avert suspicion—and slide down one side of Richard’s bed next to the wall. Barely visible, I would wait for my brother to return from his bathroom ritual.

Without hesitation, Richard plopped back into bed. I could hardly quiet my breathing as I remained hidden from view, ready to pounce on my unsuspecting victim. I waited a few minutes and then laid my right hand on his chest. My brother gasped but did not say a word. I began to move my hand ever so slowly up his chest toward his throat. Richard seemed para­lyzed with fear. I could hear air being sucked into his mouth, as though he were gearing up for one big scream, but still nothing came out.

I continued my trek, moving my fingers like a large spider making its way toward prey. Just as my fingers neared his throat, the air that had been sucked in like a vacuum cleaner exploded from his lungs and mouth, filling the entire house with a tortured cry like a dog gone wild. Every attempt to calm him with the words “It’s Michael, it’s Michael” were in vain as he jumped out of bed and began running in circles wailing louder than before. I had never seen such a thing. I was amazed! Just then Dad burst through the door.

“What the heck is going on?!” he shouted at the top of his voice.

Even Richard didn’t know quite what to say, still dazed as he was by my nighttime antics. In keeping with my father’s new rule, both of us were spanked. I can still hear my brother plead­ing as if it were yesterday:

“But I didn’t do anything.” WHACK! “I didn’t do any­thing.” WHACK! “I didn’t do anything.” WHACK!

Now lest you think that I was overly cruel and took unfair advantage of my brother, let me assure you that our teen years seem to have evened the score. And so, another story comes to mind. In the fall of our seventh grade year in school, Richard and I were given an allowance that included enough money for a required monthly haircut. Richard persuaded me that if we could cut each other’s hair, we could pocket the savings. There was only one catch: I had to go first.

The plan involved going to the upstairs bathroom and using our father’s straight razor—with the door locked, of course. Running the razor carefully over my scalp, Richard began to remove large chunks of unwanted hair. Things seemed to be going better than expected and talk of saving a small fortune over the next year filled the room . . . until Richard’s facial expression changed.

With a look of wonder and surprise—as though Richard could hardly believe his eyes—he began to mutter, “Oh, no. Oh, I, ah … Gosh, Michael, I’m sorry.”

Not the kind of thing one wants to hear from a barber, especially a novice.

“What?” I asked. “What’s the matter?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry for what? Will you tell me what’s going on?”

Before Richard could explain, I began to run my fingers slowly through my hair. Starting at my crown and sliding my hand down the back of my head, I could feel that something was missing. Not believing my own sense of touch, I grabbed up my mother’s cosmetic mirror to survey the results. As the small, hand-held mirror reflected the back of my head onto the large bathroom mirror, a large gasp filled the air.

“Oh, no,” I moaned. “It’s gone. The hair on the back of my head, it’s all gone.”

Because this was the late ’60s, when hair defined a man, my discovery proved worse than a face filled with zits. Immediately I began to cry.

“What am I going to do now?” I sobbed as Richard tried to comfort me. Of course, there was only one thing to do—tell Mom and Dad.

Certainly Mom and Dad would come to the rescue as they had always done in the past. They would know what to do.

Being compassionate parents of teens, they agreed that I could stay home from school for a day or two faking a not-so-serious head injury. Then for the next three months, I wore a bandage around my head to hide my pretend scar—giving my hair a chance to grow back. Revenge for Richard had come at last!

* Taken from my book “Good Kids” (Doubleday, NY: 1996).

Vatican Backs Archbishop Williams’ Response to Convention Actions

Pope & Archbishop Williams

The Roman Catholic Pontifical Council for Promoting Christian Unity said it shares the concerns of Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams that the Anglican Communion’s unity be maintained through common faith and practice based on scripture and tradition. The July 29 statement from the Vatican office came two days after Archbishop Williams issued his reflection on actions taken at this month’s General Convention. The statement said the Vatican “supports the archbishop in his desire to strengthen these bonds of communion, and to articulate more fully the relationship between the local and the universal within the church. “It is our prayer that the Anglican Communion, even in this difficult situation, may find a way to maintain its unity and its witness to Christ as a worldwide communion,” the statement concluded. Archbishop Williams noted that if a two-track structure for the Anglican Communion emerges, representatives to ecumenical and interfaith dialogues would be drawn only from members who accept and adhere to a covenantal structure. If those who instead choose local autonomy “do not take official roles in the ecumenical interchanges and processes in which the ‘covenanted’ body participates, this is simply because within these processes there has to be clarity about who has the authority to speak for whom,” the archbishop wrote. Catholic News Service contributed to this report.

Love Struck

It was my senior year. 

I had been eating lunch with a pretty junior named, Mary.  In that same lunch room at Penncrest High School was a young man determined to make a point that seniors shouldn’t be hanging around juniors—especially, not attractive ones.  And, so he began to throw small, empty Wawa milk cartons at the back of my head.  After the second one slammed against me, I got up and confronted the guy.  BIG mistake!  He stood and towering above me calmly asked, “So, what’s your problem?”

I remember thinking, “Now what am I going to do?”

I turned to Mary and said, “Time to go, sweetie.”  I instructed her to go one way and I’d go another—thinking he’d follow her.

Well, she did, I did, and he didn’t.  He went straight for me and grabbing a chair he broke it over my head.  And, that’s the last thing I remember.  I woke up in the hospital a few hours later, surrounded by friends and a Police officer. 

The cop said, “This guy is real bad. Sign here and we’ll put him away.”  “It’s that simple?” I asked.  “Yep,” he replied, “it’s that simple.”  So, I took the ballpoint pen and signed the complaint.

Okay, now it’s a couple of weeks later.  I’m in this Christian bookstore in downtown Media telling the clerk behind the desk about my ordeal.  Just then, she begins to look rather anxious and begins to clear her throat—you know, to get my attention that someone had just come up behind me.  And, no kidding, there he was the guy who had just weeks earlier tried to literally beat my brains out!

I turned to the clerk and said, “You’d better pray.”

The guy says, “I want to see you outside, man.”

So, I turn back to the clerk and say, “You’d better call the police, I’ll pray.”   So, I nervously, reluctantly go outside for my pounding and the guy instead begins to pour out his heart to me saying, “I was going to kill you that day, but as I lifted the chair to finish you off you screamed out the name, ‘Jesus!’”

“I was paralyzed,” he continued, “and so, I just placed the chair on the floor and sat down waiting for the police to take me to juvi.” 

“After posting bail, I talked to a guy in my neighborhood who told me that you were a Christian and that Christians forgive… So, I thought if I came to you—you know, man to man—you might just forgive me, too.” 

“I don’t want the charges dropped; I just want you to forgive me.”

Of course, I was stunned.  Choking back the tears, I barely squeaked out the words, “I forgive you.”

But, it doesn’t end there.

I was driving through Media, home from college and I happened to pull up at this gas station with—you guessed it!—Mary in my car and there at the pump was the same guy who had pummeled me a year before.  Same guy!  Same girl!  What are the chances?

We didn’t speak, but I could tell by his behavior that he recognized me and as I was about to make a clean getaway, after paying for the gas, he threw something in the front seat of my car—right on Mary’s lap…no lie!  So, I just peeled outa’ there.

Not able to contain my curiosity, I asked Mary, “What the heck did he throw in the car?!” 

“It’s a track, a Christian track, and it talks about having a personal relationship with Jesus.”  “No, way!” I shouted.  “Yes,” Mary said, “And, on the back, written in pen, is the date he’d accepted Christ as his Savior and Lord.”

“What’s the date?” I blurted out.  And, of course, it was the same day I had forgiven him.

A Double Blessing

St Philip-in-the-Field parish is my new church home. Working with the Rector, Fr. Theron Walker, my role will be to assist as a priest associate—primarily for Sunday Mass and other equally important High Feast days. Thus, I am now blessed to be able to assist two wonderful men of God: Mr. Jason D. Christensen, CEO of Catholic Charities and The Rev Theron Walker, senior pastor.

And now, a little information about both men:

Theron and I were on staff together at Grace and St Stephen’s Episcopal Church. I was a residential pastoral counselor and adjunct professor with a local university and he was the Vicar—basically, responsible for any and all things delegated by the Rector for the parish. He also was and is a wonderful teacher and preacher and conducted a Bible class on an assortment of Old Testament themes. This he did on a weekly basis to a crowded room of men and women, anxious for any hint of understanding the mysteries of God. Almost without fail, I would squeeze into his classroom to hear about the great prophets of old and their never ending quest to experience God. Theron brought the Scriptures to life—largely because he not only taught them, but lived them. His was a life worthy of imitation. And, my favorite weekly activity was getting on our knees together in either my office or his and asking God for the spiritual stamina to do His will, “On earth as it was in heaven”.

Jason is my employer and immediate supervisor. His love and concern for the poor are reflected in the decisions he makes on a daily basis. And every chance he gets, he writes about them—reminding us, “that as much as you do it unto the least of these my brethren, you do unto me” (Jesus). His good humor helps the message go down. And, when we—just like with Fr. Theron before him—pray to God, I know I’ve come to the right place.

So, I’m feeling doubly blessed… God, in His mercy, has positioned me between two men of God. My prayer will be that between the three of us (as with the Holy Trinity) he will permit us to attempt something so impossible that without Him it will fail—both in the church and out in the world.

Like Father, Like Son

I remember when Patrick was a little boy listening to the way he talked. I began to hear more of his mother’s warm, witty and very personable manner of speech. Patrick already has many of my wife’s physical features. But I guess I hadn’t thought about how truly verbal he was.

Rachel is an excellent talker, too. Although I’m known for my skills behind a lectern or pulpit, it’s really my wife who can turn a phrase. Many times I’ve wanted to record her speaking, because it’s more than what she says, it’s how she says it that really holds my attention.

(Going back in time.) now I’m in my son’s room. It’s late and I’m getting ready to put him to bed. Patrick is looking at me, telling me a story in just the same way Rachel would. The same mannerisms. The same facial expressions. The same tone of voice.

I think to myself: How does he copy her so well? Is it in the genes or is it some environmental thing?

Just then Rachel comes into the bedroom and says to Patrick, “Okay, guy, it’s time for bed. Kiss Daddy good night and get under the covers. I’ll be in to read to you from The Chronicles of Narnia.”

Then it hits me. Of course, she reads to him! It’s their bedtime ritual. And so, on a regular basis-whether Pat rick is consciously aware of it or not-he is taking in every word. Every idea. Every night. But just as impor tantly, he’s capturing her style and personality. Not just what she says but how she says it. Why, he’s imitating her-hook, line and sinker! I think to myself: This is good.  I remember that the Bible says we should keep in mind those who have spoken the Word of God to us and consider their manner or way of life and imitate it (see Hebrews 13:7). It also says that God’s Son is the express image of himself (see Hebrews 1:3). And now, before me, I have a son who-when telling a dramatic story-is the exact representation of his mother.

My point is this: As we prepare our sons for life, our job is as simple as it is challenging. At its most basic level, our job as fathers involves living in a way that makes a lasting impression on our sons, so that our best ways become their ways.

As I’m watching Patrick get ready for bed, I notice that he has my habit of talking too quickly. We call it “fast talk.” And sometimes he runs his thoughts together at such high speed I can’t comprehend a single word. Yes, he copies the good as well as the not so good! Some of you may remember the public service an nouncement that ran on TV during the ’70s. In it we saw a little boy walking with his dad. The dad picks up a stone and throws it; the son picks up a stone and throws it. The dad washes his car with a hose; the son washes his car with a water pistol. The dad takes a pack of cigarettes out of his top pocket and, lighting one up, begins to smoke. The son reaches for the pack of cigarettes the father has laid on the ground, and the voice-over says, “Like father, like son-think about it.”

Very convincing. So much so that media experts tell us that cigarette purchases by men dropped significantly during the years that particular PSA ran. Now that’s the power of TV-and it’s the power of fatherhood.

Even so, we fathers forget that we are being watched. Studied, if you please, to see how things are done. When children are young they want so much to be like us. Do the things we do. Watch the same TV programs. See the same movies. Have the same heroes. Root for the same athletic teams. Wear the same clothes!

So much so, Madison Avenue has come out with Fa ther & Son wear. Now a kid can put on the same designer clothing as dear old dad. Like conjoined twins, we can even sport the same underwear-indistinguishable in color and style. No doubt this is great stuff. I only wish raising him right were as easy as dressing alike! But you and I know it isn’t that easy.

Rachel comes back in, and as I wander out of Patrick’s bedroom, I think: What kind of impact am I going to make on him? What will I have passed on to him when he walks out that door one day. . . all grown up, headed for college or his first job away from home? Maybe with a girl on his arm and marriage on his mind? What will I have

taught him about life, love, work? I’ve had some pretty intense experiences on the job, like the time I worked for a guy who kept trying to test me to see if I’d go along with something immoral or unethical. I don’t know what his problem was, but it really got to me be cause he was supposed to be a Christian.

Will Patrick be ready to work for some demon-boss? What about when some so-called buddies come along, offering a joint? Or a girl who would love to make him feel really nice?

We’ve got to be there for our sons. The world is im pacting them and calling to them all the time. The day he leaves home will be the moment of truth, for me as well as for my son. Will he be ready to stand on his own two feet? Will he have sufficient moral courage to do what is right? Will he acknowledge God in all of his ways-in marriage, in home life, and on the job?

The an swers to these questions will be greatly affected by my intentional involvement in his life now . or my lack of involvement. With nothing left to chance, we can begin to influence, shape and guide them-helping to mold them into young men of strength and integrity.

Therefore, may God richly bless you as a father (or mother), and may He help you to prepare your sons for life-”on earth as it is in heaven” (Matthew 6:10).

This post was taken from the Preface of How A Man Prepares His Sons for Life by Michael O’Donnell published by Bethany house, 1995.

Thank God it’s Friday!

Collect for the Day:

Almighty and most merciful Father; we have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have offended against thy holy laws. We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; and have done those things which we ought not to have done; and there is no health in us. But thou, O Lord, have mercy upon us, miserable offenders. Spare though them, O God, which confess their faults. Restore thou them that are penitent; according to thy promises declared unto mankind in Christ Jesus our Lord. And grant, O most merciful Father, for his sake; that we may hereafter live a godly, righteous, and sober life, to the glory of thy holy name. Amen (The General Confession from the 1662 Book of Common Prayer)

As I knelt with my brother priests, Frs. Theron and Todd, after having just stripped the altar for Maundy Thursday Mass, it hit me… Like a ton of bricks: TGIF!

I assure you that I wasn’t thinking about a restaurant, nor proclaiming relief after a hard day’s work, I was simply contemplating my own sinfulness. And, I was thankful that tomorrow, Good Friday, over 2000 years ago, Christ would die in my stead for my sins.

You see, if Friday hadn’t come than the glorious resurrection of my Lord would not have occurred… And, my sins would remain. Not that I was concerned about punishment, but like for one of the dear priests next to me who collapsed with despair and began weeping and pounding the floor boards in front of that exposed altar we had just laid bare—sin’s remembrance hurts.

It hurts very deeply to remember offenses, particularly against the ones we love… To see their faces as we kneel, unclothed of vestments and exposed as priests in the dark… Contemplating “the devices and desires of our own hearts”; it is then that we, too, see our lover’s face as He is pleading with us to stay awake but one hour before being betrayed, beaten, and crucified.

You see, one requires companionship as he or she is about to die. No less Christ. And so, as biblically promised, where two or three have assembled in His name, He was among us. We three priests felt His presence as authentically as we experienced our own. He was there in the sanctuary of St-Philip-in-the-Field, having mercy on three “miserable offenders”—whom He spared and restored. And, when we stood and walked out of that church through the front door—wiping the tears from our eyes—I whispered, “Thank God it’s Friday.”

Joel

I was not raised in a Christian home.  In fact, the congregation I most attended was Unitarian. However, I was occasionally permitted to visit a community church up the street from where we lived due to my father’s insistence that I at least hear about the teachings of Jesus. 

And, so it was there I’d heard about Christ through a loving Sunday school teacher—I wish I could remember her name—who made every effort to share with me the Gospel of Jesus.  I’ll never forget the beautiful mural on the wall of that Sunday school room, depicting Christ with the little children sitting on the ground all around Him and forming a circle at His feet. 

I wanted to be included.   Why I wanted to sit at His feet and learn from the Master, too. 

Later in my life, after my parents were divorced and that little community church was no longer geographically accessible to me, I began to attend an Episcopal Church across the street from where my mother and I were living at the time.  There, at Christ Church, I met the boy who would become my best friend.  His name was Joel.

Joel also attended my middle school and, now that we were church buddies, he often looked out for me since he was more man than boy, if you know what I mean.  There was just no getting around it: I was scrawny for my age.  But Joel was an athlete, like his brother Jack, and he made sure that no one picked on me anymore.

Joel’s house was not large, but his heart was, and he’d let me spend the night whenever my mom was out of town.  We’d always have tacos and orange juice—what a crazy combination; but I loved it.  Mostly because Joel loved it and I wanted like anything to be just like him. 

And, since Joel was an altar boy, I became one, too.  “Sacristy rats” we were called.  And, I enjoyed every “bells and smells” experience Christ Church would offer me.  You see, for me, it was like being in heaven; made all the more wonderful because Joel was by my side.

And, although, Joel has long since passed on to glory, he’s still with me and his prayers still keep me from harm’s way.  Someday I’ll share more about this remarkable boyhood friend.  But, for now, I guess I just wanted to write about him—to see his beautiful name printed across my computer screen: J-O-E-L, my best friend.

The Open Door

Thanks for your open door, dear colleague.  It’s been a pleasure to just go in, sit and chat a bit.  What I find is both an open heart and an open mind–genuine approachability.  Maybe even at times a hint of vulnerability.  The ancients called it “transparency”, and it was a principal characteristic that drew the crowds to Jesus…For in Him, they saw no guile.  I appreciate that about you. 

 

Please know that beneath all the bravado and hype of my words about development and communications, is someone longing to make a deeper, spiritual connection to this thing called “fund-raising”.  I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m wanting a religious connection with you, too, and I apologies that, in your company, I’ve not always taken advantage of that possibility.

 

Therefore, may I offer that, the next time I go walking through that open door, we have prayer together; may be even listen to a little bit of Rich Mullins, too…  You see, my friend, that’s why I was drawn to this ministry in the first place.  Why, I was drawn to some of the very same things that drew the Apostles to Christ: your sincerity of spirit; and your heart for the poor.

 

So, thanks for offering these whenever I just walk in.

 

My prayer will be that next time I just calm my spirit–and its oft too ambitious professional drive (a nervous habit to be sure)–and simply join my brother in Christ in embracing these virtues.