Prairie Father

Pursuing Beauty

2012-02-10T09:39:00.000-08:00

Beauty, it is often remarked, is in the eye of the beholder. I disagree. Beauty is objective. Something is beautiful or it is not. The quality of beauty can be determined by the degree to which a thing is reflective of truth. Beauty and truth walk hand in hand. It is for this reason that we can say, for instance, that Michelangelo's David is beautiful. The manner in which he captures the human form, the kingly dignity of the shepherd boy, and the symmetry and balance of the sculpture all speak to truth. They portray the glory with which man has been created. Likewise, the same artist's The Creation of Man, the centerpiece of the Sistine Chapel's ceiling, is beautiful. Besides elements I have already described in David, in this work the hand of God and the hand of Adam nearly touch; God and man are almost one. God has made him nearly his equal. How beautiful. Even a piece such as Picasso's Guernica can be considered beautiful. The horror of war and the affront it present to man who is otherwise good as expressed by the piece is beautiful, even though the mural is not realistic in appearance per se. By way of contrast, pornography is not beautiful. It tells a lie about humanity.

I have been thinking about this of late as the Parish Youth Commission at Blessed Sacrament has been working through John Paul the Great's Familiaris consortio. Therein he describes the role of the family in the modern world, and he admonishes families to become a source of renewal within society. A family is, after all, the most basic cell of society. As we have entered our deliberations about the meaning of this document, there has been a resounding call for deeper education of people. Particularly, we constantly find ourselves decrying the vast ignorance most people have concerning JPII's Theology of the Body. I agree. This is something that all Catholics ought to learn. I have encountered a growing awareness, however, that even more fundamentally, families must encounter beauty.

Beauty moves us beyond ourselves. It elevates our minds toward God who is truth. Beauty is essential if we are to find value in what at times can be a very ugly life. Think of the caricatures of communist life; the dull, grey, utilitarian architecture of the eastern bloc. There is nothing beautiful in that. Think of the high, elaborate, almost gaudy structures of the Baroque period. Ah beauty. What is the difference. I suggest that the difference lies in capacity of the one to draw one outside of one's self.

As a result, it become essential for the family to find and appreciate that which is beautiful. That which is beautiful opens the heart to receive that which is true. Thus, to completely change a culture, Catholic families must make a deliberate effort to experience beauty. I suggest that the following are ways in which we do this:

1) Our children should be familiar with beautiful music. In my own childhood this took place automatically, as the classics of Western Music provided the score for most Bugs Bunny sketches. Kids ought to be able to identify these classics, and even if they do not listen to them as part of their recreation, they should at least acknowledge that they are beautiful.
2) The literature we read ought to be beautiful. Pulp fiction has its place. I get a kick out of a thriller I can plow through before going to bed at night. These sorts of book, however, tend to poorly portray the truth of human goodness. Instead of these, one ought, from time to time, to delve into the classics. We consider them classic for a reason.
3) Cinema can be beautiful, both in message and in art. We should look for beautiful cinema.
4) We should insist on beautiful liturgies. The music, the vestments, the Sacred Vessels, and everything about the liturgy ought to be beautiful.

These are not really hard things to do, and they will draw us toward Truth. They will draw us toward God. They will help us change the world. They will help make the world holy.

Honey or Vinegar?

2012-01-31T23:15:00.000-08:00

On Saturday, January 21, I posted the following as my Facebook status: "Confession is available today for any Catholic who voted for Obama. You are the ones who permitted any protection of our consciences to be trod upon by this administration."* One might say I was a bit indignant when writing it. After fifty-eight comments, the eruption of opinion ended. Several days later, J. Thorp posted a review of the Church History Primer, Triumph: The Power and Glory of the Catholic Church. Therein he criticized the caustic tone of the author. That same evening I received a message from a former seminary colleague with a reputation (and a talent really) for his acid tongue and acerbic wit. He rightfully chided me for the imprudence of my remark.

The combination of these three events brings me to a serious point of reflection. First, given my role and the impact of my words, to what extent must I curb my tongue so as to avoid unduly influencing my people in areas beyond realms of my own as well as the Church's competence? Second, even though honey seems to attract more flies than vinegar, is there a time for vinegar? Third, is there a value in knowingly and intentionally angering a certain segment of people if one will simultaneously bolster another segment?

As to the first question, I simply concede that in the majority of cases, I do not speak where I do not think I have the competence to do so. Likewise, I generally do not publicly delve into the specifics of issues where the Church does not do so. For instance, while it seems clear that a Catholic cannot, given his outspoken positions in contradiction to clear and consistent Catholic teaching, cast a vote for Obama in good conscience, I would not venture to suggest who someone should vote for instead (at least not from the pulpit). I do not know what car Jesus would have driven, and I am not sure of the best means for overcoming poverty. These are within the competence of others.

As regards the second, the answer is easy. Sometimes I have to say things that fall harshly on the ears of those who disagree. Abortion is a sin. Artificial contraception and sterilization are sins. Sex outside of mariage is a sin. Living with a person of the opposite sex to whom you are not married or with whom you have no familial relationship is a sin. These are vinegary things to say, and to my mind, need to be said with clarity so as to ensure than no confusion can surround the issue.

The third issue is a harder one.

It is certainly no secret that there are a great many Catholics who seem to believe that they get to decide for themselves what it means to be Catholic. This opinion is, of course, patently false, and opposed to the very idea of what it means to be Catholic. The issue relates to the question at hand in this way, though: Should one try to gently shepherd them back toward the truth, or should they be cut off, cast out, or handed over to Satan as St. Paul admonishes from time to time?

To my mind, this is not an either or sort of question. St. Paul and the Church both see excommunication as a way of demonstrating to the sinner the error of his ways. Finding themselves cut off from the community, they realize that they have done this to themselves by their words and actions. Likewise, they are thereby limited in their capacity to do damage to the faith of others, to give scandal, to foment confusion, and to open the Church to charges of hypocrisy. While the question at hand is not directly about excommunication, it is about whether or not those who sow the seeds of discontent within the Church ought to be coddled, or rather, should they be shaken? Should they be offended? Should it be suggested with great passion that they do not think with the mind of the Church? In shaking them, is it possible to awaken their awareness that they stand apart from other Catholics, and that, like sheep, a man apart is likely to be taken by the wolves? Does shaking them kindle their desire to be in the center of the flock?

The issue is complicated further by the fact that many faithful Catholics feel as though their voice has been silent for a long time. They wonder when they will find a leader who will lead them into battle for what is True, and Good, and Beautiful, and Right, and Just. Should they languish for fear of offending those who disagree with them?

The question here is not one of Charity. One should speak even hard things with charity. It is not necessarily uncharitable to say, though, "If you don't like it you are free to leave."

This is not about politics. It is not about simple differences of opinion. I think the question I am circling here strikes at the very heart of Catholic identity. Who are we? Who are we to be? And honestly, I am not quite sure where to stand. I know where my passions lead me. Because my passions lead me there, I am suspicious of that direction. I know where my own experience of being on the outside has taken me. I also know the experience of feeling muzzled. I know the feeling of righteous indignation.

So, I guess this is ultimately something of an open forum. Thoughts?

* For the full context prompting my remark, go here.

St. Sebastian

2012-01-20T15:51:00.000-08:00

Today the Church wears red. January 20 marks the memorials of the martyrs Fabian and Sebastian. With all respect to the venerable Fr. Fabian, Philosophy Professor extraordinaire of St. Mary's University, I am celebrating Sebastian. he is the patron saint of Roman Traffic Cops, Soldiers, Athletes, Archers, and me.

At my confirmation I took Sebastian's name. I was moved by his story of heroism and persistence in the face of the cruelty of the Emperor Diocletian. His willingness to die for the sake of his faith was a profound example of courage for me. Moreover, his feast is celebrated only one day before prior to my own birthday. I certainly didn't want to be Agnes whose feast falls on January 21.

At eighteen, I do not think I was quite sure what I was doing when I chose Sebastian. I do know this for sure, though: He has been with me ever since. At various times, when I have had to do things I would have preferred not doing (Seeing a professional counselor, taking a year away from my formal studies, etc, etc, etc) Sebastian has stood at my side lending me his courage. You can read his story here. What follows are various images of this patron of mine. St. Sebastian, pray for us.

I have seen this one in person. It sits atop his tomb. It is stunningly beautiful.

I have seen this in person as well. El Greco is harder to appreciate but, I find this beautiful as well.

To My Boys on the Occasions of Their Confirmation

2012-01-17T10:21:00.000-08:00

It seems tome that every man worth his salt desires to have a son. This longing is hardwired into him from hiscreation. Some might argue that thishope for a son, aside from man’s basest animal desires, arises from his fear ofdeath; in a son he can be assured that some part of him will live on in hisheirs – they will carry his name. Certainly we are proud by nature, and some portion of our vanity is fedwith the arrival of a son, but in the end, such an explanation seemsincomplete. A man can create a lastinglegacy by other means. This was, afterall, the aim of both Achilles and Hector. By glory won in battle, they would achieve a kind of immortality. That I mention them here is sufficientevidence that their presumptions were true. For what purpose, then, does it rest so heavily upon a man’s heart toproduce a son?

To my mind, the beginning of an answer to thisquestion resides in the humblest and most noble part of a man’s soul. When he is honest with himself, a manrecognizes that despite his triumphs, his successes, and his achievements, heremains weak, sinful, and less than the man he knows he ought to be, less thanthe man whom at his core he desires to be. As a result, a man hopes for a son who will succeed even where hisfather has failed. He hopes that oneday, as he approaches the throne of judgment where he will plead his casebefore God Almighty, he will be able to say, “Lord, I have been miserable in allthings but this: I raised a son who has become a better man than I am.” And really, that is the long and the short ofit. Any father deserving of the titlelongs that his son will be a better man than himself.

A priestcarries none of the burden of providing for and raising a family with hiswife. The longings of his heart,however, are much like those of any good man. He hopes for a son. Thus, everyman preparing for priesthood experiences acutely the awareness that he willhave no progeny of his own. If he isobservant, however, he quickly discovers that God seldom takes without givingsomething in return. Thus have I come tosee that while I will have no son of my own stock, Our Lord has given me agreat many spiritual sons. I amprivileged to say that you are among them, and it is important for you to knowthat I could not be prouder of you.

As a fatherof sorts, my hopes for you are much like the hopes of your natural father. I hope that you will be more successful thanI have been -- smarter, more generous, more loving, more faithful, more honest,and more virtuous. I hope that you will be respected. I hope that you will beadmired. I hope that when you reach the end of your days you will have lived alife worth remembering. More than all else, though, I hope you will know withdeep intimacy Him who has loved us into existence, and that you will be holy,so much holier than I. I want you to bea better man than I am. I have prayedthat this would be so for a long time now, and I will continue to do so. Already I am beginning to see that God haslooked kindly upon this request. Withinyou rests the capacity to be not only a good man, but a great man. Only one thing will prevent Our Lord fromaccomplishing this work within you. Donot permit your own self to serve as the obstacle that tempts you to substitutemediocrity for glory.

Bear in mindthat manhood has little to do with one’s age, attractiveness to women, orinclination to drink beer and smoke cigars. It has everything to do with one’s willingness to sacrifice, even to thepoint of death, for the sake of Truth, Goodness, Beauty, and Love. A good man always dies a martyr tosomething. So must it be for you.

As I am notyour natural father, I recognize that it does not belong to me to see youthrough each of the steps toward becoming a man. Because of the sacrifices hemakes for you, there are certain privileges your father reserves to himself.Among these, it is for a natural father to teach his son to shave. Nevertheless, as your spiritual father, Ihave borne witness to a less visible though equally profound and meaningfulperiod of maturation in your life. As a result, I hope you and your dad willnot find the gift which accompanies this letter too presumptuous. As with age,beer, cigars, and women, manhood has little to do with one’s capacity to grow abeard. Nevertheless, there remainssomething iconic about a razor. To possess a razor of ones own marks a point oftransition out of boyhood and into the true nobility that characterizesauthentic manhood. You are a good man,my spiritual son and the adopted son of the Father. In due time, I expect that you will become agreat man and a much better man than I am. Beyond these, you are made to become a man of God. For this reason I offer you a gift which,though perhaps mundane, carries with it the possibility of reminding you dailywho you are and who you are meant to be. Holiness, after all, is to be achieved in the way that we do the littlethings. At the very least may this giftbe a reminder of my unwavering confidence in your goodness and your capacityfor greatness.

With muchlove and affection I remain,

You Fatherin Christ,

Fr. TylerDennis

Merry Christmas 2011

2012-01-12T07:29:00.000-08:00

The following was sent in response to my Christmas cards this year.

Greetings,

As Advent tarries on and the Feast of the Nativity of Our Lord approaches, I find that the theme of my own prayer and reflection wanders consistently toward the notion of hope. How utterly audacious it is that as Christians, we announce to the world that regardless of the evil that is perpetuated and the sufferings we must endure, none of these things can approach the glory that awaits us in Christ Jesus our Lord. Over and over this season, we hear the prophet Isaiah foretell a time when the world will be peaceful and all will live in harmonious accord. Most striking to me about these prophecies is the fact that as Christians, we know full well that such a vision is not just a happy fantasy. By faith, we know with utter, absolute, and unshakable faith that such a time will come to pass. God will make it so. Indeed, this marvelous work was already begun 2000 years ago when the God of the Universe who holds all creation in existence chose to become a part of that creation and deigned to be born in the poverty of a stable and to take as His undignified cradle, a trough from which cattle were eating. How glorious our God is!

Life has changed for me over the course of the last year. In the months following my ordination two years ago, I found myself overwhelmed with the great mystery and power that had been entrusted to me by God and Mother Church as a result of my priesthood. Everything was new, exciting, and exhausting. These days I find that I experience very few “firsts” anymore. The initial sheen and excitement of priesthood has now mellowed, and I find that I can savor the incredible graces I receive in a new way. As opposed to the red, orange, and blue fireworks of joy that accompanied the first days of my vocation, I am now entering into a period of joy marked by a slow steady burn like the embers of a fire. These embers promise to sustain me through what I hope is a long life lived at the service of the people of the Diocese of Rapid City.

Not long after ordination, I began to discover all sorts of new things about myself, including a penchant for hunting and fishing. That period seemed to reach something of a climax last May with a canoe trip in the Minnesota/Canada Boundary Waters. I would never have pictured myself doing such a thing several years ago. Now I cannot picture myself not doing those things. I am

looking forward to making another such trip in the spring.

On July 1, with many tears and a heavy heart, I bid farewell to the Cathedral Parish and took up residence at Blessed Sacrament Parish on the west side of Rapid City. Now, several months later, I find myself a bit chagrined to realize how quickly and deeply I have begun to love my new family. I have often advised parents that more children in a family can only multiply love, so it should have been obvious to me that the same would be true for a priest as he became father in a new community. Suffice it to say that God has placed me exactly where I am meant to be, and even though goodbyes are hard, I discover that there is great joy to be had in new beginnings.

The Lord has entrusted me with the work of preparing forty-four teenaged souls for the Sacrament of Confirmation. These are largely public school students, which makes for a much different (not better or worse, just different) dynamic than with the predominantly Catholic School students at the Cathedral. What strikes me most about these students is the deep and abiding goodness each of them possesses as a result of the fact that they have been chosen by God for himself. As with the whole world, though, the challenge comes with trying to help them see that goodness within themselves. I find that I am filled with zeal while being simultaneously overwhelmed at the task of helping them to experience the depths of God’s love for them. I am daily confronted with the knowledge that the most effective thing I can do to achieve this end is to grow in holiness myself, and I shudder to realize just how far I have to go. And yet, there are moments where the Lord reveals small glimmers wherein I am assured that He is doing good work in the hearts of these young people. Thus I find myself once again returning to the experience of hope with which I began this letter.

All in all, life is good—exceedingly so. God gives me more than I deserve, and I thank him less than He deserves. But the sweetness of hope convinces me day by day, that God’s grace will make me more and more the man and priest I am called to be. So, I conclude simply by saying thank you. I appreciate your warm sentiments, and I pray that God will shower you with every good blessing this Christmas Season. Know of my prayers for you and yours.

Sincerely in Christ,

Fr. Tyler Dennis

At Last

2012-01-12T07:21:00.000-08:00

This is a short post just to say that I am back. We had a computer meltdown in the parish office in November, and in the process of getting everything working again, our tech guy blocked my blog with the firewall. I complained, and he fixed it allowing me to read my blog, but I was not permitted to login. I have finally gotten that taken care of as well, so I should be able to post a bit more regularly now. We will see how it goes.

My Teaching Hat

2011-11-07T17:30:00.000-08:00

This is not my teaching hat. I just like to wear it.

Generally speaking, priests like to teach. To some extent it is pent up aggression from eight long years spent in the classroom preparing for ordination desiring to revenge itself upon the unwary that prompts our taste for the lecture hall. More importantly, however, I think it comes from a genuine desire to spread the gospel. For diocesan priests at least, teaching happens most frequently at the pulpit, and the occasional RCIA or adult formation class. Seldom, however, do we have the opportunity to gather a class before us in the classroom. Even more seldom are we provided the opportunity to attempt to feed the eager young adolescent mind (tongue in cheek). So, it is a blessing and a privilege of mine, this year, to have the opportunity to teach two classes with a group of home-school students who gather for collective learning opportunity once each week.

I have been charged with the task of trying to present a coherent and thoughtful assessment of the Church's history over the course of twenty-two weeks. This means that I have to cover roughly one hundred years every sixty minutes. This has proved a challenge. Likewise, because I do not grade the students and cannot really dole out any real consequences for failing to assimilate the material, I find myself a bit at wit's end at times trying to figure out how to engage a handful of obviously uninterested and unimpressed teenaged boys. I console myself with the knowledge that one day they will lose a great deal of money on Jeopardy because they do not remember the name of the early heresy that claimed that Christ was less than completely divine. Alas . . .

Church history was my primary area of study while pursuing my MA in Theology, and I approach this opportunity to present the Church's history with gusto, but I find that I, as a teacher, am far more engaged with my second class. Along with one of the mothers, I am teaching a literature course. To date we have read The Hobbit, and in the coming weeks, we will take up To Kill a Mockingbird. Most of my literature students are of late middle school or early high school age. As a result, they are just now at the point of beginning higher level thought. They are able to think deeply and begin asking important questions. They are able to begin exploring the contours of their own beliefs and convictions (or perhaps, rather, they are beginning to develop their own convictions). Perhaps the most interesting part, however, as their interior turmoil manifests itself exteriorly as they struggle to find the words to explain what they think. And, generally speaking, what they think can be tremendously insightful and enlightening.

I had not really begun to articulate the struggle these kids were experiencing until a few weeks ago when I arrived in class, and wrote the following questions on the marker board:

1) What is a hero? How do we recognize one?

2) Is our destiny predetermined, and shaped by forces entirely outside of ourselves, or do we have the capacity to change and determine it for ourselves?

I then assigned the following project. Prepare a 3.5 to 4.5 minute speech in which you answer the one of these questions. Be sure to employ examples from The Hobbit to defend your position.

Quite honestly, I wasn't sure what to expect from this assignment, and my co-teacher was a bit incredulous. Having raised several children, she knew that this was going to be very hard for them. Nevertheless, I had already given the assignment, so we agreed to cross our fingers and hope for the best.

To put it simply, I was overwhelmed at the quality of the speeches and the arguments each of the students made. While none delivered Winston Churchill quality orations, each of them had obviously thought seriously about the questions and had made the effort necessary to develop a thorough and coherent argument. These were very good speeches considering the fact that this was the first public speaking assignment most of them had ever had. I was thrilled.

So now, I am champing at the bit to get into the next novel. The text is hard for a middle-schooler, and the themes are very mature. These young men and women, however, have convinced me that they will handle them with grace. I am already excited to hear their responses to the question, "Why did Harper Lee choose the title, "To Kill a Mockingbird"?

That Has Made All the Difference?

2011-11-04T10:09:00.000-07:00

The Road Not Taken

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

- Robert Frost

I grow rather weary, at times, of people approaching Robert Frost's poetry as though it were all happy verse with glad imagery. Perhaps it is the ease with which it is read and the sort of warmth that some of his images evoke within us that allow us to overlook the irony to be found in a poem such as the one plagiarized above. The fact of the matter is that no one really knows what might have come to pass has the narrator traveled the other path. He has no idea whatsoever how life might have been different had he chosen other than did. Maybe he would have become rich and famous after have discovered a new variety of truffle. Perhaps he would have been eaten by bears. Perhaps he would have found that a giant sequoia had fallen across the path and he had to go back and take the other path anyway. He might have spontaneously combusted. And that really is the point. We don't know. We haven't any sense at all what might change if we were to choose differently than we do. This poem is not one of happy reminiscence. This poem, to my mind, is an expression of bitterness and resignation. It is a "sour grapes" poem. The narrator, unable to know what might have been, can console himself only by assuming that what he abandoned was worth abandoning. And the reader is left to wonder, "How do you know?"

To read the poem in this manner, I think, is a much more realistic assessment of the human condition. Bound by time and space, we are forced to make decisions. We haven't the liberty of having all experiences or of following all paths. When we make an affirmative decision for one thing, we are necessarily deciding against another. That's the way life is. This is part of what it means to be a grown-up. It does us no good to sit around and speculate as to how life may have been otherwise. This, in part, must be what drives men to midlife crises. They regret the decisions they have made and try to reverse them in their later years. It is absurd, because in the end, I don't have what might have been. I have here, and I have now, and I have a God who loves me, and in his providence, can make all possibilities work for the good. This, not a leafy road of happy nostalgia, makes all the difference.

Windy Day Reflections on the Devil

2011-10-07T07:24:00.000-07:00

The few colorful fall leaves to be found in western South Dakota were to reach their peak this week, so, in typical fashion, a strong wind picked up overnight and is expected to blow throughout the rest of the day. So, now until the snows fly, South Dakota's foliage will best be observed in the gutters of streets. Along with the wind, today marks the arrival of this year's celebration of the Feast of Our Lady of the Rosary (previously known as Our Lady of Victory) which is celebrated on the anniversary of the Battle of Lepanto during which an out-manned and unlikely navy, through the intercession of the Blessed Virgin Mary, defeated the navy of the Ottoman Turks, thus saving European Christianity (especially in the South) yet again from the incessant threat of the spread of Islam. Had the Turks won, they would have enjoyed an uncontested route to Italy and its surrounding environs. Likewise, the Mass readings for this today bring us to Luke's account of Jesus' remarks about a house divided against itself.

The coincidence of all three of these events make a strong point to me. The word diabolical, in its Greek origins, means to drive a wedge between or to separate something. This is always the goal of the Evil One. He desires that we would flutter scattered and without direction just as the wind blows the leaves. He wants our defenses to be broken and to prevent us from having access to one another. He wants us to become isolated, alone, and convinced that we have no friend, no advocate, and no place to turn.

Nature demonstrates the danger of such isolation. The turkeys just outside my window this morning instinctively know that they are safer in a group than they are as individuals. Cows know this. Deer know this. Wildebeests know this. Only humans, it seems to me, are unaware that to become isolated is to risk destruction.

We need a Church. We need a family. We need the security of recognizing that we are never alone, and we are never abandoned. A house divided cannot stand. A man alone will likewise be destroyed.

The Daily Grind

2011-10-06T08:07:00.000-07:00

Blessed John Paul the Great wrote a beautiful encyclical about the dignity of human work. Therein he describes how, in work, man participates with God in the process of bringing order to creation and finds meaning for himself. All work can have this effect provided that the laborer is treated with due dignity. Whether a ditch digger or a sultan, man can take pride in and draw dignity from his work.

My own experience has proved the late pontiff's words to be true. There were many times, mostly as a student, when I went to bed at night tired, but having done nothing during the day. Those moments before drifting off to sleep were filled with a certain dissatisfaction and restlessness. By way of contrast, especially since having been ordained, there have been many nights when i have gone to sleep exhausted but content at having spent my day well.

Nights such as these have become much more common of late. Besides the general responsibilities of priesthood and ministry, I have also agreed to teach a Church History and a Literature Course for a group of home school students, I am a sponsor for two different teenaged boys, and I am the alpha and omega of the Confirmation Program at Blessed Sacrament. Likewise, I am helping to create and educate a parish youth commission. In a word, I find that I am happily, gloriously, swamped.

Work, as Bl. JPII points out, however, cannot become an end unto itself. Man was not made for the sake of work. work exists for the sake of men. For this reason, man must always take time for the sabbath. He must rest, and he must acknowledge that life will continue with or without him. The world does not depend upon the accomplishments of any single individual (aside from Christ himself). Work should lead us back to an acknowledgement of our need for and relationship with our creator.

For these reasons, I do not feel especially guilty for having taken an extra day two weeks ago to attend the Bishop's Hunt for Seminarians (to my knowledge, we have never bagged even one seminarian), and last week to attend the first annual emergency relief Fishing Tournament. Nor, I think, will I be especially troubled to take an extra day in the coming week to go camping with Fr. Sparks.

My work, I find, is deeply fulfilling. In the midst of so much of it, I find myself thinking, "This is what I was made for." One of the most satisfying parts of work, though, is this: When one works hard, one also gets to play hard. So, to all of your laborers out there, carry on. Build up the Kingdom of God, and work so as to deserve a rest. Here is a song to speed you along the way:

WYD Blog

2011-08-10T08:45:00.000-07:00

I will be trying to Chronicle our World Youth Day Adventures at this address: http://rcpilgrims2011.blogspot.com/

A Post In Which I Catch Up

2011-08-10T08:14:00.000-07:00

Until the autumn following my ordination, had someone asked me what my favorite season of the year was, I would have immediately responded, "The Fall." Fall, for me, is filled with a million happy memories. In the Autumn, I went back to school to be reunited with friends I hadn't seen in months. In High School it meant the beginning of anew theater season. It meant the beauty of the changing leaves, and reprieve from my summer job. Most importantly, it meant that the days began to cool. Then, I spent two of the coldest most miserable snow-filled winters that I can remember in Rapid City. That first winter, I distinctly recall making the decision that, should the snow ever melt, I would spent some amount of time outdoors every day that it was warm enough to do so. I think I kept that pledge. I also learned that people have lots of parties in the summer, and that kids are allowed to stay up late in the summer. So, these days if someone were to ask my favorite season, I think that I would have to concede that summer wins hands-down. Sadly, fun summers are not entirely complimentary to the process of keeping a blog. So, the following is a bit of a summary of what has happened in the month since last I wrote.

Moving

Amid great sadness and tears, I bid my farewell to the Cathedral at the final 5th and Broadway performance. The theme this year was World War II era music. I sang "It's Been a Long Time" as my solo, and joined the ensemble for the closing number, "I'll Be Seeing You." The next morning, I packed the remainder of my belongings in my car and arrived at Blessed Sacrament in time to celebrate Mass for the Feast of the Sacred Heart.

Presbyteral Ordination

The ordination for Fr. Nathan Sparks was truly beautiful. As he made his solemn promises to the Bishop, I was reminded of my own promises, and I recommitted myself to keeping them well. Besides my happiness for him, it was a time to recollect, and to adopt in a deeper way my primary identity as a priest united in a special way to Christ the Head. I have to admit I was a little envious of the new priest. For the next year or so, he will experience all of his "firsts" of priesthood. There is nothing quite like it.

Following the ordination, I hosted a party at my new rectory. People from all over the diocese were there, and I had a marvelous time. My new place is well suited for parties. I expect to have many more.

Totus Tuus Boys Camp

I spent a week at the Totus Tuus Boys Camp this summer, and it was really a superb camp. The High School Leadership was truly exceptional, and with a focus on the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the Immaculate Heart of Mary, I think that every boy, as well as the priests and seminarians, had a profound encounter with the love of the Lord. If the reports I have been hearing from mothers of campers is accurate, it was a camp well-received, the 100 degree days notwithstanding.

This year featured no serious injuries or illness, and no particular acts of heroism. It was just boys being boys, and men being boys with them. All in all, a lovely way to spend a week. At the end of the camp, we bid farewell to Fr. Brian Christensen as Director of Vocations and handed the reigns to Fr. Kevin Achbach. If we can maintain any of the fervor the camp generated, he is going to have his hands full in a few years.

Columbus

I was sent by the diocese to preach in Columbus, Ohio hoping to raise some money for us. I discovered that Ohio is a pretty dreadful place, at least in terms of climate. With a stiff breeze, I could easily have gone surfing outside my window given the humidity of the place. Other than that, it was a lovely weekend in a quaint little Ohio town. Unfortunately, due to the size of the parish, I doubt I made enough money to even pay for my plane ticket. I would feel slightly guilty about that had I not enjoyed the pastor of the parish so much.

He is a tremendously interesting man. He studied for a time with Benedictines, he has a doctoral degree from Rome, which is interesting only because it allowed him to meet so many people. He drops names in his conversations with people, but not in an arrogant way. It is just that he happens to be acquainted with a lot of rather significant people in Catholic circles. He would say things like, "I went to see Cardinal O"Mally receive such and such an award, and was seated with Fr. Groeschel. I hadn't seen him in years, so we were catching up when Cardinal Rigali, stopped by our table to, etc . . . ) What really captured me about this man, however, was his love for young priests and the hope they bring to the Church. There are times when old priests are antagonistic toward their younger brothers. This man was not that way at all. It was encouraging.

Episcopal Ordination

I finally have a new bishop, and from what I have experienced so far, a very good one. As yet, there is no clear indication as to what his program will be, but this much seems certain: he will make us holy. I am amazed at his humility and his candor when he speaks. I think I will be glad to follow and obey him.

World Youth Day

Tomorrow I leave for Spain. About fifty pilgrims from this diocese will join about 1.5 million other Catholics from around the world to share our faith, to celebrate it, and to hear our Holy Father address us. Spain is hot, Madrid is an old city, and Italians can always be counted upon to be the most inconsiderate people in Europe, so it promises to be perfectly dreadful. But, a pilgrimage should entail some degree of suffering. Pray fr us and our safety while we are away. Follow our adventures here: http://rcpilgrims2011.blogspot.com/

So, by the time I return the kids will be back in school, pheasant season will be on the horizon, and it will be nearly autumn. Football and soccer will be in full swing, and life will be back to the frantic pace that comes with the school year's arrival. But, all in all, it has been a good summer.

Woodstock Revisited

2011-07-11T15:02:00.000-07:00

I have mentioned in the past that I am a fan of the theater, and Rapid City, as small as it is, has a fairly active arts community. In general, I would consider myself a patron of the arts. The Church has a long and rich history of helping to provide for the needs of artists, particularly inasmuch as she has historically been one of the primary institutions to commissions great works of art. Significant names such as Michelangelo, Mozart, and Bernini are among the artists whose fame was achieved, in some part, by work they accomplished for the Church. Thus, I feel largely vindicated in paying an outrageous fee for a ticket to a show. Likewise, I strive to support the efforts of students involved in the arts at school.

My patronage, however, has its limits.

About a week ago, a friend from high school and I decided that we would go to the Black Hills Playhouse to take in their latest production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. I had seen a Playhouse interpretation of this musical in the past and was very pleased with it. I expected that, though different in some ways, this production would be similarly satisfying. I managed to maintain this merry sentiment until we arrived in the driveway of the Playhouse. We were greeted by a youthful hippie directing us toward our parking place. Other young hippies were doing similar work. Exiting the vehicle, we discovered that the entire campus of the theater was infested with hippies. Beads and leather and fringe abounded. They were scattered about the lawn playing games with one another, others huddled in small groups chatting and smoking near the restroom door, and still others wandered among the gathering crowd welcoming viewers to the performance.

We acquired our tickets from the box office and were escorted to our seats in the right balcony by a less flamboyant hippie. To my horror, a whole separate group of hippies had taken control of the stage and were regaling the audience with hippie propaganda in the form of some bizarre Mother-earth story. When they had finished, we were treated to an a Capella rendition of I'd Like to Teach the World to Sing. About the time that the singing hippies were pining to buy the world a coke, a wandering minstrel hippie with a guitar arrived to join the fun. He played along with the singing she-hippies until the end of the song. So entranced were they by their own music that they took to dancing on the stage. This was followed by an impromptu acrobatic performance by several other hippies. I cannot be certain, but I think this was intended to be interpreted as an homage to the sexual revolution (after all, everything a hippie does is at least implicitly meant to celebrate the sexual revolution). Having cast their spells over the less wary members of the audience, the hippies then convinced people to join them onstage for dirty hippie games until the beginning of the performance.

By this time I had ascertained that these hippies were all to be in the show. Soon the lights dimmed, the hippies scattered like cockroaches (an apropos metaphor for them, really), the spotlight came up, and one of the she-hippies made her appearance playing the role of the narrator. Other than the hippie stuff, she was excellent. Likewise, some of the dancers in the chorus were quite good. In all, though, the show was mediocre. The man cast as Joseph was apparently chosen less for his ability to sing and act than for his physical approximation of Donny Osmond. The character of Pharaoh was a sad imitation of Elvis, more akin to the broken old man who died on his toilet than the virile white southern boy who could sing like a black man.

In one of his less lucid moments, the director decided that the song Any Dream Will Do was to be cut from the beginning of the show (it is hard to reprise a song at the end which was never sung in the beginning). The Playhouse either cannot afford or cannot find live musicians, leaving them to depend upon a recorded version of the soundtrack for the music accompanying the performance. Better recorded music can be found in a karaoke bar. Other than Dan Workman (who, though a seasoned actor and a theater coach at Augustana College, was extremely disappointing) in his role as Jacob, the whole cast was very young, perhaps too young. This performance was at best, an ok college performance.

As I have said, I am not indisposed to pay for good art. I am, however, indisposed to pay rather steep prices for poor seats at a less than stellar performances of well known and much loved musicals. I appreciate the difficulties the playhouse has encountered in the last several years. If, however, they desire to succeed and even excel in the theatrical arts as they once did, they are going to have to send their hippies backstage and do the hard work necessary to win patrons as once did the venerable artists upon whose shoulders they would presume to stand.

Home

2011-07-07T13:52:00.000-07:00

For several weeks now, I have known that I needed to get home. I hadn't seen my parents in several weeks, we had talked on the telephone only long enough to convey various pieces of vital information, I was getting edgy. Likewise, I hadn't seen my brothers in any kind of prolonged way for months, and for whatever reason, our phone conversations occurred only in quick snippets as I ran from one thing to the next. But, I was moving and trying to see everyone before going, and I put off visiting home knowing that it would still be there when I eventually got there. That, I know, is a dangerous assumption to make. If one stays away long enough the home one left behind begins to disintegrate. What was old and familiar disappears. For me, this has not happened yet, but I know it can happen if I am not careful.

I have reflected on this fact to some degree in the weeks since I last wrote. To a certain extent, my immediate biological family suffers as a result of my own vocation. I know that they love me, I assume that they know I love them, but there are moments when I struggle because I am the father of a family here in Rapid City, and that fatherhood has to take precedence over what would otherwise be pressing obligations to my biological family. They, however, are (usually) very deliberate about keeping themselves connected to me. This is a fact for which I am very grateful.

In the last several weeks, I have run the emotional gamut. Near the end of last week, I was exhausted in body and spirit. Like my phone whose battery constantly seems to be on the verge of dying, I new I needed to be recharged, and I knew that a strategic withdrawal to Red Owl would be the only way to accomplish such a renewal. So, shortly before the Fourth of July, I called my brothers and more or less begged them to come home, and I arranged to spend two days on the ranch. They were among the best days of the summer so far. I played catch with my dad, brother, and nephews. I threatened to attack my mother with the garden hose. I went swimming in a small stock dam. I went fishing for bass. I shot skeet with my dad and brothers. I lit fireworks with my whole family. I surveyed the garden and greenhouse. I harassed my sisters-in-law, and held my baby nieces. We played guitars and harmonicas, and ate food prepared over good hardwood embers. We drank some beer, shot pistols (not necessarily in that order), and generally had a good time of it all. The next day I helped slaughter a beef, and then I slept and slept and slept. In the evening I fished again, and finally came back to town.

From all of this I acquired a lovely bronze hue in the face and arms, and a less lovely pink hue across the neck, shoulders, and legs. More importantly, I got plugged in. I was reminded of where I came from, who I was, and what I am about. Most certainly, I rested, but more importantly, I really lived. A good plunge in a stinking mossy water hole does a great deal to revive the soul. Thus revived, a great meal in the American tradition gives a soul luster and sheen. A family, though, is the thing that sustains it. Early this week, my family did that for me.

Changes

2011-06-19T10:29:00.000-07:00

Life unfolds at whirlwind pace sometimes. I am always amazed when people ask what I have been up to, and I cannot quite recall though I know that I have been on the go. It has been that way for several weeks. Oddly, it is most when I am trying to make life stand still for a moment, to savor something good for just a little longer, that the pace really seems to accelerate.

The seniors have all graduated from high school. They were the first group of kids with whom I worked when I started at the Cathedral. I made appearances at several receptions, and was able to attend the St. Thomas More commencement ceremony. Andy Hanson and Johnny Hofer addressed their classmates at that ceremony, and both spoke well. Johnny was exceptional in his witness to the faith as he spoke. That day left me feeling great pride in their success and a little sad at their impending departures to universities and institutions all over the nation.

I find that I am out of the loop here in the parish. Because of my new assignment, I am largely excluded from the decision making process here at the Cathedral these days. As a result, I notice a lot going on around here, but I seldom know exactly what is happening. Other than my usual schedule of Masses and confessions, I don't officially have a lot to do. Nevertheless, various surprise appointments and the like seem to pop up every day.

I find that I am spending a great deal of time with "my kids." The more time I spend with them before leaving only reminds me, though, that no amount of time will be quite enough. Happily, in an attempt to squeeze out every moment I can, I have caught vast numbers of trout already this summer. Most are only mediocre in size, but a few have been over the seventeen inch mark. I intend to go again this evening.

I spent last week on retreat, which should have been a great experience, but was not. I had a hard time focusing. I didn't want to be away; I wanted to be at home absorbing a few more moments with the people here. There were graces for sure, and the fraternity with the brother priests was good for my soul. To return home, however, was the greatest consolation of the week for me.

I have begun meeting with various staff members at my new parish working on plans for next year. I will be leading the confirmation class, and will continue to play a part in the Life Teen Program. Likewise, I will be responsible for the Wednesday evening Youth Masses. It looks like I will be doing some teaching among the home school crowd, and otherwise, I will do the things that a priest does. Masses, Confessions, Weddings and Funerals - the bread and butter of a parish priest. In some ways, I look forward getting over there just so that my schedule can adopt a certain structure.

In the meanwhile I continue to lose weight, and I can't seem to find enough to do to keep me outside. The days have been so lovely that I was even conned into playing Ultimate Frisbee a week ago. I finally managed to get a garden in, so that provides me a little recourse to the outdoors. Presuming, of course, that something will grow. The cantaloupe are already dying.

I have been beset with odd dreams which dissolve into only faint recollections as I awake. I remember only enough to know that they are odd.

All over town, people congratulate me on my move, and most seem sincere when they tell me that they are excited to have me come to their parish. I am starting to get excited too. As miserable as it is to say goodbye, I am reminded that we are a people born of the resurrection, and that these goodbyes at the Cathedral give rise to new life at Blessed Sacrament. Christ surely did not enjoy the cross, but he was glorious on the third day.

I was recently thinking about my graduation from eighth grade. I was allowed to address my classmates for that event, and as I spoke, I reminded them that change was inevitable. It remains one of the few constants in life; all things change. The ancient Greek philosopher Heraclitus concluded that all things, like a river, are in flux. Along with Heraclitus, I was only half right. Almost all things change. What does not change, however, is God himself. From eternity until eternity, he remains the same, perpetually existing as a communion of persons and yet one. The love of our God, three and one is also unchanging. So, try as I may to cling to these fleeting moments, they manage to slip away as sand falls through ones fingers. But, to my wonderment, as my fist closes around them and they vanish, I find that I am left holding a little piece of our unchanging God who was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever, whether here, at Blessed Sacrament, in the Boundary Waters, on retreat in North Dakota, or anywhere else.

Alive

2011-05-28T13:16:00.000-07:00

So, I have returned from my great northern adventure, and am now able to add to the list of things I have accomplished, "Paddled a Canoe to Canada and Back". This achievement is of monumental importance to me, but it remains uncertain as to exactly how to describe it, as I am not sure what it all means for me. For now, I conclude that this trip was the capstone of a year and a half transformation in my life wherein God has revealed a part of my manhood (and thus, also my priesthood) that had heretofore gone unrecognized. It was necessary that I paddle that canoe. I had to prove that I could. Having done so, I am a little disappointed that I did not experience a Braveheart "Freedom!" sort of moment, nor a surge of testosterone compelling me to return from the woods with a full beard and dressed in the skins of recently dead animals. At the end of it, I find I remain very much the same as I was when I left. It is all a bit anticlimactic, but nevertheless, it is a very big experience which will take me some length of time to digest.

There is too much to detail as a narrative. I did it. I am glad to have done it. I don't anticipate repeating the experience soon, but who knows. I am told that it gets a little easier every time. In what follows, I will try to address various vignettes of the trip in a somewhat thematic way.

Near Death Experiences

Of these, there were only two. It is worth noting that when we embarked on our little journey, the ice had only been off of the water for about two weeks. It was still bitterly cold, generally very deep, and often we were what seemed like miles from shore as we crossed the various lakes.Likewise, it is worth noting that until last Saturday, my experiences with a canoe were limited to about a two hour paddle on Lake Pactola with Fr. Tim Hoag and Fr. Marcin Garbacz (actually Fr. Tim and I paddled. Fr. Marcin sat in the middle reading and enjoying the lake as though he were Cleopatra floating down the Nile). As a result, I did not realize, as we made our way into the wilderness toward our campsite, that we had arrived at a bit of a crisis situation when the nose of our canoe crashed into a rock while the current of the river pushed the tail of the same canoe into another rock leaving us sitting perpendicular to the flow of water. Michael Hofer was very patient as he said to me "What you are doing really isn't helping." I only began to grow concerned when I heard that panic in his voice as he announced that water was coming over the side of the canoe. Somehow we managed to push off the rocks and right ourselves. The remainder of the trip to the campsite was relatively uneventful.

Upon leaving the boundary waters on the last day, we encountered a little wind making the water pretty choppy. It was impossible to see rocks hiding just below the surface of the water. Their presence became immediately apparent, however, when Michael and I suddenly found ourselves high-centered on top of one. After several minutes of trying to finagle our way off of it, Michael instructed me to balance myself and grab the rails of the canoe. Because he was behind me,. I couldn't tell what he was doing (which, it turns out, was probably best). He managed to get one foot out of the canoe and push off the rock with one foot. We rocked and rolled, and finally righted ourselves. "Were you just standing up in the canoe?" I asked. "No." Michael responded. Like I said, it was best that I didn't see what he was doing.

Wherein I Felt Compelled to Beat Someone with a Canoe Paddle

The entire trip to the campsite was somewhere between fifteen and twenty miles. The paddling was occasionally interrupted by portages wherein we were required to carry canoe and gear overland to get to the next lake. While the packs were heavy, most of the portages on the way in were pretty short, and I felt much more secure on terra firma than on the water, so I rather enjoyed these little walks. The last portage came about halfway to the campsite. It was at this point that I actually left the canoe and walked onto Canadian soil. Reaching the end of the portage, we took a short break, and as I rested, spread-eagle, on a rock near the water, I explained to Michael that my arms had staged a coup against my brain and were no longer taking orders. They would not paddle another stroke. Michael laughed and assured me that I would get a second wind. Within ten minutes of reentering the canoe for the longest paddle of the trip, the rain began. It was not cold, and at first, not unpleasant. It was however, quite wet. I got even wetter a couple of hours later trying to disembark from the canoe for a short break on the shore when a convenient looking rock turned out to be as slippery as a trout. Happily, Michael fell in trying to get out on the same rock, demonstrating that it was not simply a lack of grace on my own part that had landed me in the water. We sat a few minutes and then decided that it was just as good being miserably wet in the canoe as it was being miserably wet on shore. We took off paddling toward what Michael assured me was the second to last bay we had to cross on the trip. As it turns out, he was wrong, and we had taken a scenic detour to explore the contours of Wednesday Bay. Retracing our path back toward open water, I wondered if I had enough strength left to kill him.

It was not until we were on the return trip that my homicidal longing was reignited. The packs on the way out were, despite all logic, heavier than the packs going in to the campsite. This was not such a bad thing. They were heavy, but I was doing alright. I was winded when we reached the top of one portage, not long but very steep, and asked who had placed a lake on top of Mt. Kilimanjaro. The next portage, however, was at least a mile long - significantly longer than any I had walked before. When I finally reached the far shore, I looked at the man who had arranged the trip (and who, coincidentally, had decided that it was necessary to bring a small gas stove, camp chairs for every camper, and a variety of other items I deemed more and more unnecessary every time I took a step), and without even a hint of sarcasm told him that if I had had to walk even one hundred yards more, I would have beaten him with a canoe paddle and thrown all the gear in the lake.

Of Fish

The fishing was amazing. Within ten seconds of dropping my line in the water I had caught my first walleye. I caught two more within the hour. By the end of our trip we had caught 142 walleye, and well over 200 fish total. Of them, we ate twenty-five and threw the rest back to breed another year. The largest catch was a eight or nine pound walleye. There is photographic evidence of this somewhere.

These campers were walleye snobs. If they caught a bass, they threw it back at the water with disgust as though it were a bullhead or a bluegill or some such thing. In South Dakota, we would have been proud to have kept fish like they threw away. Absolutely great fishing.

The twenty-five that we ate were perhaps the best tasting fish I have ever consumed. One of the survival skills natural selection has given to the vast majority of fish is their repulsive odor and taste. Too bad for the walleye that when battered and fried, they are succulent.

Sundry Boundary Water Horrors

I am not sure that in the boundary waters there exists a truly pleasant day. While there we experienced all of the following in greater or lesser quantities: Mosquitoes and Sandflies (like tiny houseflies, and undeterred by deet) in quantities akin to the Plagues of Egypt. I accidentally ate many of them, some took up residence in my ears, and others in my nose. Wind. Rain. Scorching heat. Cold, cold nights. It was all par for the course, though, and a necessary part of an authentic boundary waters experience. I must say, however, that I have bites in various places on my body where no insect had any business being. I'm not sure how they got there.

Small Treasures

One learns to really appreciate dry clothes, warm feet, and wood dry enough to start a good fire. One also learns to appreciate one's own foresight in having brought along a goodly amount of pipe tobacco and a couple of pipes. One appreciates good friends who live along the way who let you stay at their houses for the night, and wait up for you as you get lost trying to find them. On returning home, one appreciates a bed, a pillow, and the familiar smell of woodsmoke from one's own area. Most of the wood we burned was birch. It never smelled quite right to me. Give me pine and ash smoke over birch smoke any day.

Behold, I am With You Always

It is pretty cool to celebrate Mass in the wild knowing that regardless of how far I was from humanity, I was still able to do the most essential thing for the salvation of their souls. God was not necessarily more apparent to me in the natural world, but he was close in new ways. I liked that a lot.

Insight Into the Lives of Our Forefathers

Had it been my responsibility, the people of the great lakes region would never have been evangelized. After one day of paddling, I would have said to my companions, "I've had enough. Let them go to Hell." It is amazing to me that people once traveled everywhere by canoe, or by horse, or on foot. They carried everything. They made everything themselves. When crippled, they had to care for themselves. When sick, they lived or they died without the ministrations of a medical professional. I thought of that often as we swung the ax to split firewood, or as a hook tried to lodge itself in a finger. People used to be tough. While I am awed by them, I do not envy them; I harbor no desire to live as they did. I rather like my cell phone and indoor plumbing.

Wildlife

Beyond the fish, I saw beavers and beaver dams. After crossing over the dam, I decided that beavers are a menace. We killed a mouse who was helping himself to our supplies (among them, the Ibuprofen). We saw a small snake, and a junebug. There was also a moose in our camp one night, but I did not see it. That was a disappointment, as moose are pretty much my favorite animals.

Men

In total our party was eight. Two of us were novice campers, the rest had varying levels of experience. I was particularly impressed by one guy, about ten years older than me. He grew up on those waters, worked for some years with an outfitter who prepared people to travel the waters, and he has vacationed there regularly for his whole life. He was genuinely kind, always helpful, full of incredibly useful information about the flora, fauna, and geography of the region, and ultimately, a deeply devout man. His example of true Catholic masculinity was incredible. He is the kind of guy that other men are born to follow. It was great to meet him. The other men on the trip were great too, but as an introvert, it was a bit hard for me to be with a group I didn't know especially well. Because of this, the conversations we had often remained superficial and sometimes dull. If I go again someday, I will go with more people that I know.

In Conclusion . . .

The trip began on Friday, we paddled on Saturday, it concluded on Wednesday, and I was home on Thursday. I find that it was good to be away from my phone and computer, and the trip allowed me a little time to get used to leaving this parish. It will still be sad, but like any knight errant or adventurer, I have come to realize that it is time to move on. As I said, this was a pretty significant trip. I have some mementos of it that I will probably frame eventually. In the meanwhile, I will content myself with catching trout. That sort of fishing is a little more my style (I caught five last night). One of these days, I suppose I will go back. But not anytime soon.

On A Lighter Note

2011-05-19T11:23:00.000-07:00

I think I might die on Saturday.

About two weeks ago, a status update appeared in my Facebook newsfeed asking if anyone wanted to go to the Minnesota Boundary waters. Half-jokingly, I sent a note to the author suggesting that i would want to come. He returned a message asking if I was serious and giving me a few things to consider before making a final decision. Among these factors was that the trip would entail between six and ten hours of canoe paddling. I thought about it but decided it would be hard to get the time off, and decided not to do it.

A few days later a seminarian from our diocese called to tell me that he would be joining that trip, but would be going later, and did I want to go with him. It seemed too providential that this opportunity should present itself twice, and so after a brief conversation with the pastor (it took him about three minutes to arrange the schedule to permit me to have the time off) I called the seminarian and told him I was in.

I have wanted to do a boundary waters trip for about a year now. The Lord has placed all of these new interests and hobbies (hunting, fishing, etc . . .) in my life, and such a trip seemed like a perfect culmination to a lengthy process of growth. The idea of going into the wilderness with a bunch of other men was, for the first time, attractive to me. I envied others who were planning such trips for themselves, and unsuccessfully tried to get myself invited. It comes a bit of a surprise to myself, then, that even though I am excited to leave, I am also experiencing a vague feeling of panic. Ten hours of rowing (One way) is a lot of rowing. I am severely out of shape. I am not a strong swimmer. I get cold easily. I like indoor plumbing. I don't especially like insects.

But, this is a great adventure, and an adventure is just what I need. I think it will help put into perspective the new leg of the adventure of following Christ I will undertake beginning July 1.

I leave tomorrow and paddle on Saturday. I'll write more when I return next week. Presuming, of course, that I don't die in the boundary waters.

What Becomes of the Broken-hearted

2011-05-18T20:47:00.000-07:00

It's official. Effective July 1, I will become the associate pastor at Blessed Sacrament Church in Rapid City. Soon thereafter, Fr. Nathan Sparks will assume his duties as associate pastor of the Cathedral Parish.

For months now, I have suspected that this would happen. To some extent, because of that, I have been too easily convinced to go out and have fun with people rather than do my work in the office. I have been trying to milk every moment of time I can with the people I have come to love. For several weeks prior to learning this news myself, I found myself in tears for no apparent reason just because the thought of leaving was so painful.

I had hoped that once I knew for sure, it would get easier. It didn't, especially because I was not allowed to tell anyone that I would be leaving until they learned it through the official announcements in the parish. I have to admit that I did not keep this secret well. There were plenty of people who knew before the announcement was made. It was too much to carry alone.

For some, I suppose, this may sound silly. I am just moving across town, after all. It is much more than that, though. I am leaving my family, and I am entrusting them to the care of another. I am leaving my fishing buddies, my hunting buddies, my friends, my brothers, my sons. While there will remain perpetually a special bond between us, from now on, they are no longer mine. And as ridiculous as it is, a part of me worries, "Will I be replaced in their hearts? Am I just one more in the progression of priests who pass through the Cathedral every couple of years?" For Fr. Nathan's sake I hope I will. For my own, I hope I will not.

I feel terrible too, because I worry that I approach my new parish with a heart divided. I wonder how I am going to be able to love them? They are good people and they deserve a priest dedicated to them? How do I give my heart to them now?

The realistic part of myself knows that this was going to happen sooner or later, and that when I eventually leave Blessed Sacrament it will happen there too. That knowledge terrifies me. How many times can I give my heart knowing that it will ultimately be rent in two? It is this reality that I have been writing about for several posts now. I need to let my heart be pierced, and to recognize this experience as a profound experience of love. But it is, literally, the most painful thing I have ever had to do.

Once I made light of a difficulty a cousin of mine was having in a relationship with a woman. My Father rebuked me, "Has your heart ever been broken? When it is maybe you will understand."

It seems that I am finally beginning to understand.

Mission Accomplished (Sort Of)

2011-05-11T21:28:00.000-07:00

One year ago today I published my first post for Prairie Father. At the time, I had great aspirations of publishing one a day. Then once a week. Then, as the mood struck me. I find, nevertheless, that the reasons for which I first began writing remain much the same: To have a place to help process the experiences of a young priest hoping to become a better priest, and to pursue holiness. This blog has done a great deal to help me. Without it, I would likely not have articulated the change of course I needed upon arriving at my thirtieth year. Without it, I would likely not have understood how I was being called to allow my heart to be pierced like the heart of Christ. Without it, I would likely not have been able to give a name to the ways in which God was calling me to give vent to newly discovered facets of my personality. So, in many ways, Prairie Father is doing what it is supposed to do. Thanks to all of you who are reading. Because of you, I am encouraged to give words to thoughts, feelings, and experiences that would otherwise go unexplored in my own mind. Thank you for your prayers, your encouragement, and your challenges to me. Once again, I commend this work to the intercession of our Blessed Mother and St. John Vianney.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us.

St. John Vianney, pray for us.

Self Improvement

2011-05-04T21:54:00.000-07:00

For reasons I cannot fully explain at present, I have been little inclined to write for a while. Suffice it to say that I am a little blue these days. Every day, however, comes with its own set of blessings, and today's was a rather encouraging one.

As I noted in my last post, during Lent, I began visiting a dietitian. I saw her again today, and can report that after seven weeks, I have lost twenty-six pounds, nearly four inches around the waist, and almost two around the hips. This has happened primarily through a major change in diet; more vegetables more often and less pasta (in other words, none). I find that this is a small price to pay for the benefits I am already enjoying.

Though diet itself will help a great deal, I am told that I need to include an exercise regimen into my lifestyle. I am encouraged to find something that I like to do, which is easy enough except that the things I like to do don't really lend themselves to everyday engagement. For instance, while I sometimes walk great distances in giving chase to the wiley pheasant, I am only allowed to do this a limited number of times between the months of October and January. Likewise, I am willing to walk some distance to do battle with the elusive trout, but my schedule permits me only a miserly quantity of time to devote to this pursuit. One thing that my schedule does seem to permit, however, is two bowling. I can bowl two games almost every day, and finish within half an hour or so. Unfortunately, bowling is hardly an aerobic workout. While it does seem to do a lot of good in terms of muscle, it dos little to actually raise my pulse.*

I recently went outside to play catch with some teenage kids and got a real kick out of it. Sadly, I throw like a girl. I would like to believe that this is the natural side effect of having thrown nothing but a rope as a child, and I might be able to convince myself of the veracity of this sentiment were that I had ever been even a mediocre roper. Such is not the case. I find that I rope like a girl too. No. Strike that. Most girls rope better than I do. As it is, I have decided that it is high time for my father to teach me to throw a ball.**

In the seminary, I walked a great deal. I was glad for the anonymity an evening constitutional granted me. In the neighborhood of the Cathedral, to walk is to beg encounters with parishioners, and it is therefore less appealing.

I would like to begin lifting weights, and I think that I could deal with the fact that most teenage boys could lift more than me, but I just can't stand the idea of going to the gym to do it, and I would need to find someone to go with me besides. I have some light weights and an exercise band in my rooms, but I find that given my approach to morning (i.e. avoiding it as long as possible), I have little to time to commit to these tools.

But, I have lost twenty-six pounds and intend to lose a great deal more. One thing at a time I have to remind myself. One thing at a time.

* This statement is not altogether true. I find that throwing a ball down the gutter three frames in a row actually does raise my pulse. Just not in the helpful exercisey sort of way.

** This should explain m urgent demand that my father dig through the closet to find the ball, bat, and glove that live there.

Refining Dreary

2011-04-14T22:03:00.000-07:00

Paul Gustave Dore, A Midnight Dreary

Having arrived nearly at its end, I am just now getting around to talking about Lent. I haven't any profound meditations on the theological and liturgical meanings of the season. Rather, I offer some insight into my own Lent.

Historically speaking, I don't like Lent. It is long, and it comes at the most dreadful time of year when the snow has been around interminably, the skies remain a consistent, brooding, dull gray, and people having grown weary of the cold become listless and sulky. Moreover, for the ten years during which I was in formation, Lent hailed the arrival of Seminary Evaluations. Though a necessary evil, no one enjoyed the process. "Dreary", I suppose, might describe how I have known the season of Lent. This year was different.

As far as my own penances go, I adopted two principally. First, I would get out of bed by 7:00 AM or earlier. While this does not seem a sacrifice to most people I suspect, it was a major sacrifice for me. I hate morning. It is a deeply painful experience for me to be required to communicate with parishioners in the sacristy as I prepare for the 7:00 AM weekday Masses. I am generally much better by the end of Mass, but prior, I am best left undisturbed. This penance has proven a nearly total failure.

Second, in keeping with a months long argument I have been having with the Lord and the revelations I wrote about on the occasion of my thirtieth birthday, I decided it was time to take up arms against my vanity, swallow my pride, and ask for help in losing weight. In the first week of Lent, I saw my dietician for the first time. Though she forbade me from eating nearly everything I like most, this resolution has proven enormously successful. Thus far, I have lost around twenty pounds, my mood (even before the early Mass) has improved tremendously, and I find a new joyfulness.

Likewise, I redoubled my commitment to my prayer. My reflections the last time I wrote are connected to this action. I find that the Lord is taking me more and more into the mystery of his own pierced heart. There are times when I hang with him on the Cross, knowing full well his presence, but crying out with him, "My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?" These are what I can only describe as a hard consolation; they reveal the depths of love and are filled with a simultaneous experience of agony and joy. My heart has been pierced, and to be a good priest, I must allow it to be pierced over and over again.

Arising from my prayer have come both a new and insatiable desire to be holy and a longing to sacrifice. The latter of these is connected with my celebration of the Mass and with what I wrote in the previous paragraph. Such sacrifice, I believe, will lead me to holiness. For my people who read this, please remind me to be holy. Don't let me off the hook. I can do nothing for you if I do not attempt to be holy myself first and foremost.

In a new way, the Lectionary readings for the season of Lent have had profound meaning this year. I have preached repeatedly on the need to use Lent as a time to tame our wills. All that I have preached has been equally applicable to myself as to my people. I seem to be listening to myself in a way that I had not always done before.

Holy Week and Easter now loom before me. I will sing the Exsultet for the first time at the parish in Custer this year before baptizing (and confirming) my sister-in-law and my niece. Easter promises to be especially glorious.

All in all, the Lord has been doing tremendous work in me this Lent, and it has been a joyful season full of hope, gratitude, and gladness. These adjectives, I find, are much more satisfying than is "dreary".

Won't You Stay

2011-04-03T20:24:00.000-07:00

Over and over, I find myself talking of love, demonstrating that Christ on the Cross reveals love in its purest form. "His love is selfless," I remind people. He pours himself out freely, completely, faithfully, and fruitfully. He holds nothing back for himself. It has no desire to possess, to grasp, to take. It only desires to give. It is this same love that we find each time we receive the Eucharist, and each time that husband and wife reaffirm their wedding vows in the marital embrace. It has no desire to possess, to grasp, to take. It only desires to give

It is this same love, too, that a priest should express each time he celebrates the Mass. I find, though, that my love is selfish.

As I climb the stairs toward my room each Sunday, I am filled with a deep sadness, loneliness, and aching. I have spent the day with my people: Mass, Prayer Groups, Life Night, Confessions. But, at the end of the night, they go home, and I wander to my room, wondering, "Do they know how much I love them?"

Sometimes I leave the rectory and go elsewhere, spending the evening with people, knowing that if I am tired enough when I return home, this longing to love and be loved will be numbed. Sometimes I sit in front of the television until it has anesthetized me. Sometimes I read until I can't keep my eyes open. On my best days, though, I sit in my room and I wallow in the aching, wanting so badly to possess those whom I love, and knowing that were I to possess them, were I to be like them, were I to be going to their homes and families, and lives apart from me, I could not love them as I love them, for to be like them in that way would mean that I could not love them as a priest.

When last I wrote, I suggested that love will always wound us. It always comes at a cost. I suspect that I will pay for the love I find in Christ in weekly installments.

Jackson Browne seems to capture this sentiment in some ways.

The Little Prince

2011-03-21T20:49:00.000-07:00

A common strategy in preaching, employed with parents who tend to stop listening when the homily begins, is to preach to the children. Parents think this is cute, and they pay strict attention to see what cute things Father is saying to their children. Father, however, knows that this will happen, and so he says things that, while comprehensible to the children, are really directed at the parents. It works every time.

Such, I think, was the strategy of Antoine de Saint-Auxupery when he wrote his famous novella for children, The Little Prince. While in Minnesota several weeks back, J. Thorp had shown me a copy of the book that he intended to read. I was paging through and decided I would need to revisit the text as I had not opened my own copy since my senior year in college. Thus, after Dostoevsky, hoping for something lighter, I devoured the novella. In tone, it is indeed much easier to read. In substance, it is equally profound.

The work begins with the narrator, have made a crash landing in the Sahara Desert, attempting to fix his plane. In the midst of this, he meets a boy who asks him to draw a sheep. The man, after several failed attempts, draws a box and tells the boy the sheep is within. The boy claims that he can see the sheep, and thereafter, begins, piecemeal, to describe how he came to be in the desert alone. He has arrived from his own planet where he lived along with a very vain Rose who believed herself to be unique in all of creation. Eventually the boys leaves the planet and visits several others, inhabited by foolish men, before coming to Earth.

On earth, he meets a variety of creatures teaching him valuable lessons. Among them are a desert flower, a snake, and a whole bed of roses like the one he has left behind, and a fox who asks the boy to tame him so that the two might play together. The fox explains to the prince that to tame him means "to establish ties." He goes to to explain the nature of the ties established when one tames something:

If you tame me, it'll be as if the sun came to shine on my life. I shall know the sound of a step that'll be different from all the others. Other steps send me hurrying back underneath the ground. Yours will call me, like music out of my burrow. And then look: you see the grain-fields down yonder? I do not eat bread. Wheat is of no use to me. The wheat fields have nothing to say to me. And that is sad. But you have hair that is the color of gold. Think how wonderful that will be when you have tamed me! The grain, which is also golden, will bring me back the thought of you. And I shall love to listen to the wind in the wheat...

The prince tames the fox, but after a time knows that he must move on. As he prepares to depart, he and the fox share this interchange:

And when the hour of his departure drew near—

"Ah," said the fox, "I shall cry."

"It's your own fault," said the little prince.
"I never wished you any sort of harm; but you wanted me to tame you…"

"Yes that is so", said the fox.

"But now you're going to cry!" said the little prince.

"Yes that is so" said the fox.

"Then it has done you no good at all!"

"It has done me good," said the fox, "because of the color of the wheat fields."
And then he added: "go and look again at the roses.
You'll understand now that yours is unique in all the world.
Then come back to say goodbye to me, and I will make you a present of a secret."

The little prince went away, to look again at the roses.
"You're not at all like my rose," he said.
"As yet you are nothing. No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one.
You're like my fox when I first knew him.
He was only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes.
But I have made a friend, and now he's unique in all the world."
And the roses were very much embarrassed.
"You're beautiful, but you're empty," he went on. "One could not die for you.
To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you
–the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she's more important
than all the hundreds of you other roses:
because it is she that I have watered;
because it is she that I have put under the glass globe;
because it is for her that I've killed the caterpillars
(except the two or three we saved to become butterflies);
because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled,
or boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing.
Because she is MY rose."

And he went back to meet the fox.
"Goodbye" he said.

"Goodbye," said the fox.
"And now here's my secret, a very simple secret:
It is only with the heart that one can see rightly;
what is essential is invisible to the eye."

"What is essential is invisible to the eye,"
the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember.

"It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important."

"It is the time I have wasted for my rose–"
said the little prince so he would be sure to remember.

"Men have forgotten this truth," said the fox. "But you must not forget it.
You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.
You are responsible for your rose…"

This, to my mind, is a masterful conceptualization of the meaning of love. Love tames us. It forges ties between us. Love will always hurt us. This, I think, is the truth of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Him, whose heart was filled with love for us, to show his loved, allowed that same heart to be pierced by a lance. So too must we love. So often we hesitate because we have been hurt by love. We hold back for fear that our love will bring us to pain, but in truth, it is that same pain that becomes the surest mark of true love. Pain is the cost of being tamed. Would that all of us allow ourselves to be tamed by another.

I think of this today, having spent the afternoon with a family who made the difficult decision to discontinue life support for their 14 month old daughter. The little girl had tamed them. And, for all the pain, they are better for having been tamed.

One is the Loneliest Number

2011-03-15T19:54:00.000-07:00

The history of the Church is replete with pairs of saints. Claire and Francis of Assisi; Benedict and Scolastica; Gregory and Basil; Cyril and Methodius; Perpetua and Felicity; Ignatius of Loyola and Francis Xavier. Even in our modern times, we see that there was a special relationship between John Paul II, who is to be beatified May 1 and Mother Theresa of Calcutta. This pairing of saints, is not, I think,coincidental. To live a life of virtue is to court loneliness.

I had not given this fact much thought until recently. Though I almost constantly (and rightly so) exhort people to virtue, and though I constantly remind the kids in our formation program of the importance of swimming against the current, and though I admit to them that this is hard, I am not sure that I have ever given due consideration to the existential experience of loneliness that accompanies virtue, especially for high school students.

In about three weeks, I have talked to four or five high school students at some length about this fact. Though the particulars of their experiences vary widely, a common theme accompanies each conversation. They must choose between living as they know they ought and living a life that allows them to fit in. This is about more than simple popularity. At this point, most of these kids would be content just to have a true friend with whom they can be honest, who will be honest with them, and who strives after the same things they strive after. More and more the are discovering that a life in Christ is a zero sum game. It is all or nothing, and the cost can be very high. The agony of this decision is particularly pronounced in the life of a teenager because he is also, at that point in his life, asking serious questions about his own identity. The exhortation of Christ to let the dead bury the dead and to give up everything to follow Christ is now being realized in their lives. A decision for Christ can feel as though it leaves them standing alone.

This loneliness, as heart-wrenching as it may be, is a good thing. It speaks to a singularly profound longing that all of us eventually experience. Though a bit fluffy, I appreciate the analogy provided by the person who first commented that there is a God shaped hole in each of our hearts. This image evokes the truth that we each possess an aching to fit in, to be known, to be understood, and to be loved. As beautiful as human love is, it is never quite enough to fill the God shaped hole. Just as they are renegotiating all of the rest of their relationships, these teens are suddenly finding themselves on the harrowing path that leads them to solitude, and therein, the depths of the Father's love. The pairs of saints that punctuate our history knew this, and they encouraged one another to keep on that path, even when they, like Virgil in Dante's Inferno, could no longer walk with their pilgrim friend.

This loneliness is why we need a Church. In a Church, as a community, we encourage one another to keep moving forward. Like Frodo in the Lord of the Rings, we easily become terrified as we approach the precipice; we need someone like Sam to carry us to the edge. We need someone to walk behind us who prevents us from turning back. These kids are learning that intimacy with God is something that they must do alone. But like all of us, they long for someone who will keep telling us that it is worth doing.

Crime and Punishment

2011-02-25T09:17:00.000-08:00

"Raskolnikov"

It is my firm conviction that one of the greatest penances that people must bear is to suffer the ongoing consequences of their sin. In doing so, these consequences can have a purifying effect; the suffering incurred by sin has a way of making one holy. It is for this reason alone that I can recommend Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. Though a masterpiece in psychology and the spiritual life, it is simply painful to read because of its likeness to reality.

On Tuesday, I finally finished this piece of classic literature. Having begun reading it and stopped two times previously, this was no small accomplishment. It is not as though the book is too dense, or the ideas too complex, or the plot too slow that halted my progress. Rather, in a way, the book is too heavy. The author's portrayal of sin and self-loathing is too accurate. True to life, Dostoevsky opens the novel with his main character, Raskolnikov, agonizing as he encounters the relentless temptation to sin. Equally true to life, he incrementally justifies the sin in his own head, until he finally arrives at the decision to murder an old pawnbroker and then her sister who catches him in the act. Seeing the plot progress, the reader feels as though he is suffocating, unable to convince Raskolnikov to turn back each when, with each passing epsidoe, he is provided opportunities for doing so.

Raskolnikov does not turn back, though. In a scene as dark as any written by Tarantino, the two women lose their lives to an ax-wielding, impoverished college student. This action occurs early in the book, leaving several hundred pages thereafter, each dripping with Raskolnikov's sense of alienation, self-loathing, his incapacity to love or be loved, and his paradoxical desire to confess coupled with a desperate desire not to be discovered. Through all of this, Raskolnikov is physically ill, an outward manifestation of his inner turmoil. With him, the reader has two desires: alleviate the guilt, but do not get caught. As any sinner can tell you, though, nothing alleviates the guilt of a sin once committed except a good confession. It is that moment toward which the entire novel spirals.

Besides the sins of the main character, Dostoevsky introduces readers to the sins of several other characters. Through them, one comes to see very clearly that no sin is private. Sonya, a young prostitute, lives her life of sin due to the dereliction of her father. Raskolnikov's sister finds herself engaged to a dreadful man in the hope that she might sacrifice herself for the benefit of her brother. A stranger and minor character in the story, nearly goes to the gallows for Raskolnikov's crime.

Only in the last few chapters of the book does a glimmer of hope begin to shine. Confronted by a lawyer convinced of his guilt, Raskolnikov begins to acknowledge his sin and to begin to suffer the consequences thereof. This is the start of a long healing process. Through suffering, he finds that he is able to love again. Through suffering, he is able to begin to forgive himself. Through suffering, he is able to let others forgive him. In a word, through his suffering, Raskolnikov is able to find the truth of his own sin and depravity. In knowing these, he finally comes to recognize the true depths of love.

This book is agonizing because it is true. Too real are the emotions and thoughts of Raskolnikov. Anyone who has undergone an experience of conversion will find himself resisting the book, screaming within himself, "I will not go back there. I will not go through this again." Punishment, one discovers at the end of this novel, has little to do with the suffering one endures at the hands of another. Suffering of that sort would be easier. Indeed, one often wishes that another would simply punish him so that his sin could be expiated. Such is not often the case, though. Instead, punishment is the real experience inflicted on himself of any man of conscience who has sinned. This self-inflicted punishment is necessary. It carries with it the possibility of salvation. Like Raskolnikov, each of us must confront the truth of our wickedness and perversion. We must suffer the consequences that such knowledge brings. In doing so, we will experience love, and we too will love. By this love, we will find salvation. That is the mystery of the Cross.

Duke

2011-02-15T22:51:00.000-08:00

My childhood was punctuated by a parade of beloved pets. I don't remember a time when my family was without a dog, and more typically, we had several of them. Likewise, we had a curious assortment of cats, some of who0m lived in the house and some of whom lived without. I recall having had rabbits for a while as well as a runt pig that lived very briefly. Along with these were many lambs, a goat, several ponies, and bottle fed calves. Most of these animals had exquisite names; one of the cats was Evinrude,* one dog was Rastus, and one of the bottle calves was Ephrem.** On a recent trip across central South Dakota, however, couldn't help but call to mind Duke.

For a great deal of my growing up years, I didn't realize that the dog's name was Duke. When calling him, my grandfather would simply say "Here, Dog," to which he generally responded. As I recall, he was mostly a mut, but clearly has German Shepherd in his background.

Family lore abounds with stories of Duke. He loved to fetch. My mother talks of how he would accompany her to softball practice and catch line drives in his mouth. Dad tells of a time that he fetched wrenches while he and Grandpa were working on a tractor or something. He also had a predilection toward rabbit chasing. We owned a rather realistic looking plastic rabbit (the sort one might use as a decorative piece in a garden) with which the adults of my family would torment him by saying "Get the rabbit." Ears alert, back stiff, and nose twitching he would look in the direction people pointed and prepare himself for a full fledged chase. The plastic rabbit was just a tease, but he could give a real rabbit a run for its money.

Duke is long gone, but his reaction toward rabbits is one that I have seen in many dogs since then. Whether it be Border Collies upon noticing livestock, or goofy house dogs chasing a stick the reaction is similar. The whole body tenses with desire to run, to chase, and to capture. Depending upon the situation, I have found this reaction comical or at times maddening. Never had I suspected that it was a behavior that I shared with them until I was making my drive.

Looking across the snowy landscape on Monday, I saw hundreds of pheasants. I spent most of that portion of the trip staring out the side windows, aching to shoot, to throw a rock, or to at least give chase and make them fly from me in fear. I could do none of these things. I had no gun and the season has ended. The pheasants seemed to know this. Some were pecking and scratching but most were simply standing there, mocking me, defying me.

I felt pretty awful about poor old Duke and all the times he tried to give chase to a plastic rabbit.

* His purr was like a motor.

** There was always a danger in naming the calves. One never knew when it might end up on one's plate. Steak with a name has a way of sticking in one's throat.

Farewell to Youth

2011-01-27T23:13:00.000-08:00

Dr. Kenneth Snyder, who served as my primary instructor in Church History while I studied theology, wrote on my Facebook wall on the eve of my thirtieth birthday, "I hope you took some time today to say farewell to your youth."

I read that comment just before turning off the lights and closing my eyes on the last day of my twenties. I appreciated his humor and his good wishes, but I tossed and turned considering the fact that his comment had crystallized what I had been feeling in the days before my birthday. Thirty is not old; I don't pretend to be aged and wise. Yet, while young, thirty is really no longer youth. That thought brought me to the verge of tears as a drifted off toward sleep.

I spent the days leading up to January 21 considering the manifold ways in which I had wasted my youth and had failed to accomplish so many things. For instance, because I was afraid I couldn't do it or that I would not be good enough, I never really tried to be an athlete. These days, I wish I would have. I wish I could have overcome my insecurities, and just had the good sense to know that I would have had fun, but I was too worried that I might fail. I wish I would have been less judgmental of my peers, and I wish I would have recognized then that the contempt I felt for them was just a mask for jealousy because they were doing things that I wanted to do, but that I knew were wrong. I wish I would not have been jealous, held back as I was, by a noble but misguided ironclad moral code; I wish I would have recognized that a moral life made me truly free, and in that freedom, able to see in my peers the goodness with which and for which God had made them. I wish I would have made them my friends as opposed to enemies to be defeated.

I wish I would not have been so proud. I wish I would have been more willing to admit my ignorance and to seek help and advice. Perhaps I would have learned to lift weights, or to use gym equipment. I didn't want to look a fool. Had I any humility then, perhaps I would have only appeared a fool whereas now, I find that I proved myself one.

I wish I would have learned more, and applied myself more. School came easily, and all too often I coasted.

I wish that then I would have been willing to shoot, to hike, to fish, and to play. These things seemed beneath me for some reason, the pastimes of rubes. I wish I would have learned about cars and motors. I wish I would have talked more about football and cheerleaders. My pride insisted that because these were the interests of base men, they were beneath my dignity. I wish I would not, for so long, have underestimated the dignity of manhood.

I wish I would have dedicated more time to manual labor and work with my hands.

I wish I would have loved more. I wish I would not have feared rejection. I wish I would not have feared vulnerability. I wish I would not have pretended to have it all together. I wish I would not have wasted so much energy hiding my sins from others when I was really only trying to hide them from myself. I wish I would not have been so afraid to be totally and radically honest.

In a word, I wish that when I was thirteen, eighteen, twenty-five, I had begun to understand the things about myself that only began to become clear in my twenty-ninth year.

So, it was a bitter pill to swallow as I realized that I would be saying farewell to a youth that I had seemingly squandered. Thankfully, God's goodness is without bounds. I can only recognize these things because of the clarity offered by hindsight whose expertise is limited to that which has already passed. In other words, it is only because I have arrived at thirty that I can regret what I failed to do when I was eighteen. Those things I wish I had done then, I realize, I can still do now but without the baggage (nor, of course, the same energy and physical prowess) of youth to accompany it. More importantly, the pride which so hobbled my willingness to try then has been tempered. At thirty (especially as a professed celibate) it is much easier to not give a damn about how foolish one appears.

To not give a damn, I am coming to understand, is one of the richest graces of full-fledged adulthood.

What Do They Mean by Choice

2011-01-21T14:25:00.000-08:00

Today marks my thirtieth birthday. I will have much more to say about that in a separate post. Tomorrow marks the thirty-eighth anniversary of Roe v. Wade, and throughout this nation, there are rallies being held to celebrate the freedom to "choose." I am one of the lucky ones. Rallies are being held to celebrate the fact that a full third of my generation and a full third of the generation behind me has perished at the abortionists' hands. And the thing is, I know that I have mattered. I have loved and been loved. I have made a difference to people. And I was a choice? That is not pride speaking; it is a matter of fact common to all living people. But, to NARAL and others, I was just a choice. Maybe someday they can explain, what do they mean by choice . . .

This and That

2011-01-15T13:14:00.000-08:00

God is up to something. I'm not sure what yet. Several weeks ago, two separate women asked me to serve as their spiritual director. I thought perhaps they had been told to do so by someone else. Nope. Apparently the Lord had put it on their hearts to do so. A week ago, I received the same request from another woman. Last weekend, I also served (for the first time) as a director for a silent retreat. That particular experience was really good. Being a director was almost like being on retreat myself. I'm not sure why God has prompted all these people to come to me, but he has. I suppose the reason will become clear eventually

+++

My hatred of winter notwithstanding, I did find it rather amusing to join Deacon Nathan Sparks for an afternoon of ice fishing recently. He caught one trout and let one get away. I caught none. Given the various ways in which one might go about catching a fish, ice fishing is likely to be the most uneventful while simultaneously demanding the most physical exertion. I'm not sure I will make a habit of ice fishing, after discovering that it consists mainly in boring several holes in eight to ten inch thick ice only to stand around and occasionally prevent them from freezing over.

+++

When I went to Borders to use my holiday gift cards, I had hoped to find some material a little lighter and happier than what I generally read. I failed. Among my purchases were The Picture of Dorian Grey, The Idiot, and A Clockwork Orange. By the end of the day I will have finished reading A Clockwork Orange. I mentioned this to a parishioner recently who was horrified. Apparently it was a very offensive film. I can see why, the book is written in the first person, and the fifteen-year-old narrator (Alex) employs a fictional slang that anesthetizes the reader to the horror of the acts the narrator perpetrates. One is never necessarily sure that what one thinks is happening is actually happening. The second and third sections of the book beg important questions about the nature of freedom and its consequences. It is definitely an interesting read, but not necessarily bedtime reading for the faint of heart or squeamish. It was my habit in major seminary to read some good old tedious Russian Literature as a way of coping with the winter. Perhaps the same will work in Rapid City. Next on the agenda: Dostoevsky's The Idiot.

+++

Of all the hateful games in the world, Buck Euchre must be the worst. I learned this game over the Christmas break, and I have played it at least once a week since then. I don't especially like it, as it takes forever, and winning seems to have little to do with skill. Moreover, it is the kind of game that requires the losers to pay the winner. It is not gambling. It is more like a tax on the stupid. I commented to those with whom I played last night that playing the game leads me to believe that I have to buy my friends, as they seem uninterested in learning a different (cheaper) game. To my own amazement, I finally won a game. I am inclined to never play again.

+++

A man at the hospital asked recently invited me to his Church so that I could "actually worship God." Perhaps he was trying to be funny. Had I not been there to pray over the body of his dead mother, I would likely have had some very interesting things to say to him. I am left to wonder why they called a priest at all. I don't expect to be asked to do the funeral.

+++

As I was praying in the ER with this same family I mentioned above, the lullaby that announces the birth of a new baby throughout the hospital suddenly played. The sun sets and the sun also rises. Life goes on.

+++

All things remaining equal, Monday will mark my final pheasant hunt of the season. I am terribly excited to go, this time with the priests in my fraternity group. I am a little concerned about the idea of all of us carrying a firearm, but after several trips hunting with teenage boys, it is not likely to be more frightening. So long as Winter cooperates, it will be a glorious day.

+++

My new chest waders arrived a few days ago, but with no boots. I will need to purchase something that I can wear on my feet while wading. Any suggestions? Now all I need is for the snow to melt, and no trout will be safe from me. I am certain of it. It is going to be a great summer.

I Hate Winter

2011-01-01T21:27:00.000-08:00

I wrote previously about truly enjoying the freedom to celebrate Christmas and other holidays with my parish and then celebrating them with my family. That remains true. Winter, in her devious scheming*, however, seems to persistently attempt to derail my plans. That is, at the root, the reason I hate winter and believe that it is an evil resulting from the fall of man. Given that this is my blog, I shall now elaborate at some length defending this otherwise irrational position.

As I have noted, winter has a way of interrupting the most well-laid of plans. The last three days serve as a prime illustration of this point. My family, unable to gather for Christmas proper, finally agreed that we would gather for our own celebration December 31 and January 1. For that reason, I was able to enjoy a glorious Christmas Day and several days thereafter. Knowing how deceptive Winter might be, I kept an eye on the weather, but was thrilled to discover, as the time of our family gathering neared, that it appeared that the weather would cooperate. Sunday predicted scattered snow flurries for Friday, as did Monday and, on the site I was checking, Tuesday. Apparently the site I used is unreliable, though, because that same Tuesday my mother called to inform me that my youngest brother would not be able to come until later. He was concerned about the until then unforeseen blizzard that was to arrive Thursday and continue howling through early Saturday morning. I was, as one might imagine, unamused (my mother can offer a more detailed account of this fact).

As predicted, the wind and snow set in on Thursday. At some point my mother called to tell me that my next younger brother and his family were braving the wind and snow and were making their way to the ranch. I wanted to do the same, but thought it unwise. I would hopefully still be able to get there on Saturday. Trying to make the best of the situation, I went to Borders and bought some new books with Christmas gift cards, and then enjoyed the company of several seminarians and their parents who came to the rectory for dinner on Thursday evening. This was followed by a ridiculously long evening of playing cards at the neighbors' house, and a lengthy excursion into one of the new books before going to sleep. Setting my alarm clock for 10:00 AM, I relished the knowledge that I would get a full eight hours of sleep.

My phone rang at 7:30 AM. "Both of your brothers are here," my mother announced to me cheerfully after I had scrambled around trying to find the damned phone and croaked a greeting. "They said the roads were fine." "That's nice," I responded. "I am going back to bed. My alarm is set for ten. I will talk to you then," I assured her in a most pleasant way (again, for the details, consult my mother). At ten, I arose, called home, and foolishly decided to make the trek to the ranch with assurances from my brothers that the roads had been good when they traveled them.

Locals can attest to the fact that Rapid City has a most ingenious snow removal system. Apparently, each vehicle that passes over the snow filled streets necessarily takes a small quantity of snow with it when it passes, thus rendering actual snow removal equipment almost unnecessary. This system works so well that I am inclined to visit the person responsible for the city's snow removal and punch him in the nose. After being nearly killed in town, I finally made it to I90, and gave thanks to God that the highway was mostly clear. That is one benefit of a strong northwest wind. The snow never has a chance to accumulate on the interstate. Occasional white-out conditions notwithstanding, the roads were pretty decent, and I arrived home to join the Christmas celebration already in progress.

Winter lost this battle, but it was only one of many in which we have engaged. As it stands, the score is decidedly in winter's favor. Last year's Christmas trip led to a most pleasant interlude wherein I patiently awaited the arrival of my father's four-wheel-drive pick-up to drag me from the ditch less than ten miles from home. As I waited, I could not help but recall a similar experience from several years earlier on the entrance ramp leading to one of Minnesota's Rest Areas when I had to be winched out of the drifted snow by a tow-truck. More than once, winter has forced me to cut short a school break so as to be sure to arrive back on campus ahead of the weather. Likewise, winter regularly prevented my leaving school for vacations at the planned-upon time. Moreover, winter and I have many shared memories of treacherous trips made from Wall to Red Owl along the Elm Springs road, a variety of cow related events in the bitter cold, and a truly dreadful day spent falling down at Terry Peak. Winter has repeatedly placed me in the position of having to decide if an event should proceed as scheduled or not. Rightly or wrongly, I would feel responsible for the accidents of a person coming from or going to an event I should have canceled.

For me, fond memories of winter are hard to come by. I can intellectually acknowledge that I had fun in the winter and in the snow as a child, but these memories conjure no wispy feelings of nostalgia as do others. Instead, the season suggests manifold ways in which I might go careening to my death. Even writing about winter, my stomach knots a little, my teeth clench, and when I stop typing to review what I have written, my hands clench. With the lack of sun, the bitter cold, constant lethargy, a bleak world view, and the promise of doom always on the horizon, I simply cannot look out my window to a blanket of fresh snow and marvel at its beauty. Instead, I swear. That always seems to get the day off to a good start.

In the end, though, I hate winter because, when encountering her icy grip, I have no control. I know that the notion of control is but a facade, but, as with so many other things, I am loathe to relinquish my knuckle whitening grip on a plan and its outcome. Without control, I must give leave to God to do as he will, and even after many years of trying to do so, and after telling so many others in the confessional that they must do so, I find that I am frequently unwilling. Usually God is polite and he asks us for things. Winter, more than any other season, though, is a show of force on his part. He stops asking us to abandon a false sense of control. He just takes it. It is a lesson as bitter to me as the winds that blew for the last three days, and the lesson becomes no less bitter with the passing of each winter.

At the end of a rant like this, one will doubtlessly ask, "Why are you in South Dakota?" It is a fair question, and I have to admit that at this time of year, I find myself asking the same question sometimes. Here, however, is home and the Devil you know is better than the one you don't. And besides, when one hates winter as I do, there is nothing more glorious than Spring. We are only 108 days from May 1.

* I have a rather bizarre friend who insists that he has the power to command the snow at will. He apparently acquired this power after having his own vehicle problems on I90 during a terrifically cold winter's day and having walked a good distance for help. He tells me that he "communed with Lady Winter" that day, and she has given him special powers which he is able to exercise by performing a ritual he calls the "snow dance." He is only half- joking when he tells me these things. Anyway, because he makes constant reference to "Lady Winter" (a lady in the same way that Typhoid Mary was a lady by my estimation), I find myself automatically assigning feminine pronouns to the season.

Brief Thoughts on Christmas So Far

2010-12-26T22:26:00.000-08:00

Winter makes me tired. I wonder sometimes if I have seasonal affective disorder. So, as I write, even after having slept well last night, and having napped well today, I am still worn out. Today, however, it is a good sort of tired.

In the last week, I have hosted two Christmas parties, shared Christmas in the homes of four parish families, celebrated four birthdays, held my new niece, celebrated three major Masses (and sung the prefaces for two of them), eaten prime rib twice, lobster once, and caviar for the first time (it is alright, but not exactly the sort of thing that I can see myself craving), sang all of my favorite Christmas Carols, seen innumerable people that I have not seen since summer or longer, and been hugged by a vast array of people. I have very clearly been among family, even though they are not the family with whom I grew up. And they have worn me out.

Besides all this, the kitchen counter is covered with cookies and other sweets, and we have a very nice selection of wine to accompany dinners for a while. People have been exceedingly generous to me, and I plan to be exceedingly generous to Cabelas.

To top it all off, I will see both of my brothers, their wives and children, and my parents on Friday when we gather for our two-day Christmas celebration. I will celebrate Mass with them, give them gifts, and receive their gifts as well.

And in all of this, I am filled with an overwhelming sense of peace, of love for my people, and thanksgiving for the God who became man so that he might make all men like God.

For many years I was something of a Scrooge, but these days, I must admit it: I love Christmas as a priest.

What is a Boy?

2010-12-19T10:02:00.000-08:00

I am not in the habit of simply copying and pasting the writing of others on this blog. But I really enjoyed this post from The Art of Manliness. The following, written in 1945, was recently republished there.

What Is a Boy?

By Alan Beck
Between the innocence of babyhood and the dignity of manhood, we find a delightful creature called a boy. Boys come in assorted sizes, weights and colors, but all boys have the same creed: to enjoy every second of every minute of every hour of every day and to protest with noise (their only weapon) when their last minute is finished and the adult males pack them off to bed at night.
Boys are found everywhere—on top of, underneath, inside of, climbing on, swinging from, running around or jumping to. Mothers love them, little girls hate them, older sisters and brothers tolerate them, adults ignore them and Heaven protects them. A boy is Truth with dirt on its face, Beauty with a cut on its finger, Wisdom with bubble gum in its hair and the Hope of the future with a frog in its pocket.
When you are busy a boy is an inconsiderate, bothersome, intruding jangle of noise. When you want him to make a good impression, his brain turns to jelly or else he becomes a savage, sadistic, jungle creature bent on destroying the world and himself with it.
A boy is a composite—he has the appetite of a horse, the digestion of a sword swallower, the energy of a pocket-size atomic bomb, the curiosity of a cat, the lungs of a dictator, the imagination of a Paul Bunyan, the shyness of a violet, the audacity of a steel trap, the enthusiasm of a fire cracker, and when he makes something he has five thumbs on each hand.
He likes ice cream, knives, saws, Christmas, comic books, the boy across the street, woods, water (in its natural habitat), large animals, Dad, trains, Saturday mornings and fire engines.
He is not much for Sunday school, company, schools, books without pictures, music lessons, neckties, barbers, girls, overcoats, adults, or bedtime.
Nobody else is so early to rise or so late to supper. Nobody else gets so much fun out of trees, dogs and breezes. Nobody else can cram into one pocket-a rusty knife, a half eaten apple, three feet of string, an empty Bull Durham sack, two gum drops, six cents, a sling shot, a chunk of unknown substance and a genuine supersonic code ring with a secret compartment.
A boy is a magical creature—you can lock him out of your workshop, but you can’t lock him out of your heart. You can get him out of your study, but you can’t get him out of your mind.
Might as well give up—he is your captor, your jailer, your boss and your master–a freckled-faced, pint-sized, cat-chasing, bundle of noise.
But when you come home at night with only the shattered pieces of your hopes and dreams—he can mend them like new with the two magic words—”Hi Dad!

Read more: http://artofmanliness.com/2009/12/19/manvotional-what-is-a-boy/#ixzz18a7gWaXL

Flashback

2010-12-16T15:00:00.000-08:00

From the mouths of infants and babes

2010-12-16T10:28:00.000-08:00

Last night was the last night of Middle School Formation until after Christmas Break. I arrived in the Church Hall to have dinner with the kids following Mass and found myself seated with a group of seventh and eighth grade boys and girls. This sort of combination often amuses me, if only for the unadulterated awkwardness between the kids. Last night was funnier than usual however.

The conversation at the table was about annoying songs (of which there are apparently a great many these days) which play repeatedly on the radio. I made some comments about similar songs from when I was their age, but the conversation suddenly made an about face, and we found ourselves discussing the flat screen television that hangs in the rectory's living room. One of the kids asked the person who brought up the topic, "How do you know that? Are you stalking him?"

I responded, "There's a song about that too."

One of the boys looked at me oddly and replied, "Did you say that you are stalked by a fat Jew?"

Middle Schoolers . . . .

An Unlikely Prophet

2010-12-15T21:57:00.000-08:00

December 8 passed as a day largely unnoticed this year. What with the busy-ness of the season, it comes as little surprise, I suppose. Of course, there were a few particularly zealous people who arranged their lives so as to give the day its due, but for the vast majority of the world, it was of little consequence that last week, December 8, marked the thirtieth anniversary of the death of John Lennon.

All diatribes about hippies aside, I like the Beatles. I have six CDs in my car's six CD changer. One of them is a sung version of the Chaplet of Divine Mercy, another a recorded version of the Rosary. One is a talk delivered by author John Eldridge. One is a collection of tunes performed by a local Christian Rock group and another a compilation of various songs that a friend passed on to me. The one I listen to most often, however, is a collection of my favorite Beatles hits. I am not much into their psychedelic stuff from later in the band's career, but I love a lot of the lighter songs - "I Want to Hold Your Hand;" "Here Comes the Sun;" "Life Goes On."

I am not much into Beatle Lore, and could not tell you about when or why they broke up. I don't know much about the careers of the various members following the dissolution of the band. I do know, however, that John Lennon managed to be fairly successful as a soloist, and that among the most popular songs from that part of his life was "Imagine."

As Advent moves along toward its culmination in the Feast of the Nativity, that song has come to mind several times. The Utopian world that Lennon imagines without war and filled with peace and harmony among men is deeply resonant with the readings that we hear throughout this season. His ideas are not far from Isaiah's prophesies of the lion bedding down with the lamb and the child playing at the den of the cobra. There is a major difference, though. Lennon, by the time he performed this song, was a communist, and deeply convinced of the possibility of man achieving a perfect world by means of his own power. Time has demonstrated that such political views are profoundly unrealistic and almost impossible to achieve even in the best of settings. The world that Lennon longed for all too easily became the disastrous world Orwell predicted in Animal Farm. Man alone cannot arrive at the peace Lennon describes. It is, as it were, the peace the world cannot give (John 14:27). Such a world is possible, however, and it is for this world that we pray during this Advent season.

Herein, however, lies the difference. My sin, the decisions I make daily, prevent such a world from existing. Now multiply that reality by about six billion, and then multiply it to the Nth power to take into consideration the long lasting effects of the past sins of others that have developed into systemic evils in the world. In doing so, one quickly realizes that we are utter failures as regards fixing things. Insert, however, the cross of Christ into the equation, and everything changes. In this season of Advent, we are called to consider anew the real need each of us has to allow Christ to apply the grace won by his death to the sinfulness that exists in each of our lives. Already he has begun the work of bringing about the vision of Isaiah and John Lennon. We can see this in many ways and places, but its completion depends upon man's willingness to be redeemed and to pursue holiness, and even these require the workings of grace.

Advent, with John Lennon, invites us to imagine. It invites us to seek forgiveness. It invites us to become holy, knowing that it was this that Lennon imagined without knowing it was called holiness.

Anticipation

2010-12-09T11:00:00.000-08:00

The anticipation is killing me.

One of the best parts about Christmas, especially as a priest, and especially since I am no longer in school is the fact that everyone comes home for Christmas. The seminarians will be home. Young people from previous World Youth Day Pilgrimages will be home. Last year's senior class will be home. Friends from high school will be home. My brothers and their children will be home. And eventually, after enjoying all of the previously mentioned aspects of this season, I will be going home.

The whole of Advent is about waiting, longing, and the quiet expectation of the glorious coming of the Lord. As I wait for Him, and as I wait for everyone to come home, I recognize that these two things are related. In both cases, I long for a new and deeper revelation of the love of God revealed in his Son. With those returning to celebrate the holidays with their families, I will know a taste of that. With the coming of the Lord, I will one day know it in full.

And the anticipation is killing me.

Dilemmas

2010-11-30T23:04:00.000-08:00

Though it is a frustration to her, I kind of appreciate the fact that my mother works at a job which requires her to work on most of the big holidays. Inmates at the county jail aren't released for holidays, so those corrections officers charged with their oversight don't necessarily get the holidays off either. As a result, of late, it has become the custom of my family to celebrate the major holidays sometime other than the calendar date upon which the holiday falls. For instance, my family celebrated last Christmas on the Monday and Tuesday following December 25. As it turns out, such a practice is a great convenience for me.

As a priest, holidays present me with a certain dilemma. As with most people, I want to be with my biological family for the celebration of Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, and the like. As a priest, however, I also want to be with my people. Last Christmas, for instance, I was thrilled to know that I had all of Christmas Eve and Christmas Day to spend with parishioners because I would be celebrating with my family later. There was no mourning of the fact that my family was absent. I would be with them in due time. There was no rush to finish Mass and get to the ranch. It was an absolutely beautiful celebration of the Nativity of the Lord, the winter storm notwithstanding.

This year, for Thanksgiving, there was a change. Mom managed to get time off on Thanksgiving Day. Though I was glad of the fact that I was able to be with my family on Thanksgiving this year, I was also a little deflated. The forecast was predicted foul weather, and I was afraid I was going to be stuck in Rapid City if I didn't leave on Wednesday. Max Daniel was to receive his First Holy Communion on Thanksgiving day, and I wanted to be there. How was I to do both.

As it turned out, the weather was fine and I left after morning Mass on Thursday. I was able to be present for Max and for my own family. Such will not always be the case, though. As time goes on, there are sure to be times when I will be required to choose between my family at home and my family at the Church. My heart is torn by this, because I want to be both places, and to be in either place would be good.

In a way, though, I find a beauty in this. This is one of the wonders of the priesthood. I really have found a family, a people of my own in my parishioners. Rather than trying to escape them, as happens in many jobs, I want to be with them for those meaningful days, those holidays, those holy-days. This is one of the ways in which I come to experience God's love. And it is precisely this that such holidays are about.

"You Can't Take It With You"

2010-11-20T11:57:00.000-08:00

I was a "theater geek" in high school. Early in my freshman year I was introduced to Oral Interpretation, and soon thereafter, to the One Act Play competition. I was immediately hooked. The lights, the make-up, the costumes, the almost unbearable, nauseating tension, tangible, crackling backstage as we waited to make our first entrance. Taking the first step onto the stage, and the exhilaration as that tension flooded away as I delivered my first lines of the show. The energy of the performance, sharp like a razor, honed by the tight-stretched nerves of each of the other actors. Feeding off of the response of the crowd, our characters expanding and overwhelming our true personalities with each laugh or gasp from the audience, and feeding off of the other actors as the same happened to them. And the applause, oh the applause, as the cast bowed at the curtain call, each of us trying to catch our breath as our character disappeared and we returned to ourselves. To be on stage was to empty myself, pour myself out in front of a crowd. It was like running to end of the highest diving board and jumping, without looking, into the coldest, deepest water, then struggling back to the surface and gasping breath after breath of sweet life-giving air. And then, the surreal quality of having finished the day following the last performance. A part of me was dead and gone.

Though I did not receive a part in the One Act play and though I was only an extra in the spring production of "Grease," I was at every audition for the rest of my tenure at Wall High School. As a Junior, I was recognized at a district competition as a superior actor for my role in "Dragons," but the climax of my acting career came that same year when in the spring, I played Milky-White, a cow, in our school production of "Into the Woods." This part was supposed to be played by a plastic cow on wheels. I begged the director to let me play it; it was by far my favorite role in a play. A year later I graduated, and I never gave a second thought to the stage. I had no interest in acting in college theater, though I remained then, as now, a patron of the arts. My interest in performing was momentarily piqued when I was required to don makeup and wigs for our summer production of 5th and Broadway, but other than that, I find I remain little inclined to mount the stage.

I am not altogether certain why I was able to give up theater so easily. I was never really an incredible actor, but I took a lot of pleasure from my time on the stage. Perhaps I was burnt out by the end of high school. Regardless, I have had, since then, little desire to act. In fact, I have become extremely self-conscious about it. These days it is very hard for me to play a role in a skit. And yet, last night, as I watched the St. Thomas More High School production of "You Can't Take It With You," I was a little envious and more than a little nostalgic.

The show was very good. The set was relatively simple, but the script was fantastic, and the casting was inspired. Each of the characters was well played, and every actor appeared to be having fun with his part. Along with the rest of the audience, I found myself laughing uproariously as the plot wound its way toward its inevitable resolution. It is no wonder this play won a Pulitzer Prize in 1937. I would have loved to have played any of the parts in this production, from a firecracker making father, to the drunken actress who spends most of the second act sleeping on the couch. Eccentricities abound among the characters of this play, and I suppose in the end, that is the thing that makes me nostalgic.

Theater is the refuge for those who find themselves a little odd. It is a place where one gets to be a different person for a season. In high school, this was a blessed relief. Trying to figure out who I was, theater freed me to be any number of people, and to try on a variety of different lives - a British intellectual, a disturbed teenager, a nameless member of a high school gang, the cruel husband of an adulterous wife, a swordsman dressed in black, an evil henchman, and a lovable cow. On the stage, I could do and get away with things I could not do and get away with in real life.

In the seminary, a man necessarily discovers who he is, and it becomes less and less pressing to want to be like someone else. Along the way I guess I discovered that real life was far better than the scripted life of a character on stage. True self-giving was far deeper and more meaningful than to pour out a pseudo-life through a character. To be truly alive as me was far more sustaining than to feel tingly and alive with the energy of a show. But, theater helped me get there. I pray it does the same for the cast of "You Can't Take it With You."

Words

2010-11-09T22:32:00.000-08:00

"I tell you, on the day of judgment people will render an account for every careless word they speak.

By your words you will be acquitted, and by your words you will be condemned." Matthew 12:36-38

Not to pudify them, but when one spends an inordinate amount of time amongst teenagers and young adults, one begins to forget how to speak English. While I have noticed this before, the phenomenon arose once again to my consciousness on Saturday after driving three teenage boys around central South Dakota in search of pheasants foolish enough to allow themselves to be shot. We found twelve such birds, and while doing so, I discovered that "sick" has nothing to do with one's health nor does it imply (as it recently did) something unattractive, unseemly, grotesque, perverted, or nauseating. Rather, "sick" has become an adjective emphasizing the good quality in some other thing. For instance, "Did you see that snowboarder make that jump? It was sick!" Likewise, "You should have seen how sick that one spot was. There were birds everywhere."

A similar evolution has been taking place with the word "sweet," albeit for a longer period of time. Sweet might describe the quality by which the taste of coffee is changed by sugar. Seldom does it describe a girls cheery disposition these days. More often, it functions as modern shorthand by which one expresses one's approval of a thing or an event without suffering the indignity of adjectives with more than five letters. A typical conversation with a high school student proceeds like this: "How was the concert last night?" "It was sweet." I don't necessarily disapprove of this use of the word. It mitigates the extent to which I am responsible to remain literate in youth culture. I get what sweet means, and I do not have to ask a great many succeeding questions trying to grasp the relative value of the experience, and almost anything can be sweet. I have personally heard this word used to modify each of the following nouns: Taylor Swift, skiing, snow boarding, my gun, various cars, football games, various universities, several university professors and an interminable collection of other nouns.

I indubitably support those who decry this vilioration of the English language, and am vehemently on the side of those who insist that each bastardization of a word leads us one step closer to a fully Orwellian society. Such a rant, however, is ill suited for a blog inasmuch as it requires only one sentence. Kids should be required to read more in school, and they should have to read good literature. The end. My principle concern is for myself. Inundated, as I often am, by this lackadaisical approach to proper spoken English, I worry that I will eventually become incapable of speaking like an educated adult.

Such silly worries, one might chide, but I hear our language used in utterly indefensible ways in the most inappropriate of circumstances. An example of this occurs each time I hear someone say to another, "Don't take it personal." "Personal" is an adjective employed to modify such nouns as hygiene, trainer, and problem. A well trained English speaker would remark, "Don't take it personally," a sentence wherein an adverb is used to modify the verb "take" by defining the manner in which a thing should be taken. People even swear badly. To whit, "Those damn kids!" Damn is a verb, the action of which is to eternally separate a person from God and his love. Using the word as a verb, one might say, "Damn those kids!" In the prior case, however, the appropriate expression would be "Those damned kids!"

Even more exasperating, though, is when one misuses a simple word. For instance, unsuspecting penitents might bear the brunt of Father's vexation with the misuse of the English language. I expect that they will never bear the "blunt" of the same. Such a mistake would not constitute a faux paus, though, unless one were to misuse this idiom while, for example, eating one's salad with the wrong fork.

Luckily, the always pretentious NPR came to my rescue to today with a charming story about a new wildly popular internet site. I invite you to visit www.savethewords.org. I am sure you will agree that this webpage is pretty sweet.

Thumbing My Nose at England

2010-11-05T18:43:00.000-07:00

Guy Fawkes

Remember, remember the fifth of November,
The gunpowder, treason and plot,
I know of no reason
Why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, ’twas his intent
To blow up the King and Parliament.
Three score barrels of powder below,
Poor old England to overthrow;
By God’s providence he was catch’d
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, make the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
Hip hip hoorah!

A penny loaf to feed the Pope.
A farthing o’ cheese to choke him.
A pint of beer to rinse it down.
A faggot of sticks to burn him.
Burn him in a tub of tar.
Burn him like a blazing star.
Burn his body from his head.
Then we’ll say ol’ Pope is dead.
Hip hip hoorah!
Hip hip hoorah hoorah!

- Traditional Guy Fawkes Day Rhyme

"V for Vendetta" aside, Jolly ol' England can bugger off as far as I'm concerned.

It is, to my mind, impossible to have a good grasp of history and remain a Protestant. This thought has been on my mind today as England celebrates the notorious foiling of the "Gunpower Plot" of 1605 when authorities, after being tipped off by a letter, discovered Guy Fawkes and his co-conspirators in the act of setting explosives to blow up Parliament. What is left unsaid is the evil perpetrated against Catholics by Queen Elizabeth and her successors. Likewise, few care to recall that even the apostate Henry VIII (he has previously received the prestigious title of "defender of the Faith" from the Pope) maintained a certain Catholic Orthodoxy in the midst of his heresy. It would be his successors who would wholly eviscerate what vestiges of Catholicism remained in England. The Gunpowder Plot was the attempt of desperate men to be allowed the freedom to practice the faith demanded of them by their conscience.

I do not condone terrorism. I do not think blowing up the British Parliament was a good idea. It is helpful, however, to consider what drives a man to consider such extreme action. England claimed to permit a great deal of "tolerance" towards Catholics in those days. It is a mantra almost identical to the message of tolerance we hear today. By my estimation, this country tolerates faithful Catholics about the same way that England did in 1605.

Thanks Mom and Dad

2010-10-28T08:55:00.000-07:00

Divorce sucks.

I was chatting with my mother and grandmother this afternoon, and as seems to inevitably happen these days, our conversation turned to various tragedies of which we had recently become aware. A failed suicide attempt leaving a young man in a persistent vegetative state, relatively young women overdosing and dying, etc . . . Somewhere along the way, my mother mentioned gang violence and wondered aloud how to address it.

I don't wonder at all. I have written at length about fatherhood, and true fatherhood is the cure to that disease. Between that and reading J. Thorp's latest blog entry I began speculating about marriage and fatherhood and all varieties of things associated with it. As I did so, I was reminded of just how grateful I am that my parents have been faithful to one another and to their marriage.

It would be a lie to say they did not fight, that all things were always good, and that they lived their marriage perfectly. I remember very tense times in our household. Though I didn't really know why, I knew things were bad. One thing that never occurred to me, however, was that my parents might divorce. That was never an idea that I entertained. I had no idea what a firm foundastion that created for me until I started meeting people whose lives had been so severely shaken by the divorce of their own parents.

I knew a girl for a while who often spoke about her boyfriend and how she really loved him and wanted to marry him. The one thing that prevented her from making that commitment, however, was the divorce of her parents. She did not think that she could enter into a lasting marriage, and she was terrified to hurt her own children in the way that her parents had hurt her.

Even as I write this, I realize that there are lots of people in terrible marriages and that things are falling apart. This isn't a blog post about them and their marriages. It is about the fact that regardless of how bad it is and how much better things may be after divorce, there are going to be casualties. By the grace of God and sometimes the pure tenacity of my parents, I am not one of them - a fact for which I am supremely grateful.

Shades of Aeolus

2010-10-27T20:27:00.000-07:00

Aeolus, according to the ancient Greeks, was the Father of the Winds. Legend has it that he gifted Odysseus with a favorable wind and a bag in which he had confined all of the ill winds. I get the impression that as that famous Greek mariner did on his sojourn home, so he has done once again. The ill winds seem to have escaped.

These winds have been blowing both literally and figuratively. A low pressure system covered all of South Dakota and much of the Midwest - I heard on the radio that this sort of pressure system causes hurricanes on the Gulf of Mexico. We just don't have the warm water to create the full storm. Trees fell in Rapid City. A newly constructed wall fell where the Central School addition is happening. And, I was able to shoot only one bird, which is perhaps the greatest tragedy of all.

Ill winds have blown a lot of truly difficult cases my way as well. It is in part, because of these, that I haven't written sooner. They have been consuming my emotional and spiritual energy, and I can't say a lot about them. Suffice it to say that poverty, violence, drugs, alternative lifestyles, a deplorable health care system, and addiction have all taken their toll on me.

As I write, however, it seems that Aeolus has managed to capture the northwest wind and put it back in Odysseus's sack. I pray it stays put for a while.

Things You See at the Nursing Home

2010-10-21T20:45:00.000-07:00

The Cathedral Parish is responsible for Masses at eight local assisted living facilities/nursing homes. Of the eight, I have primary care for four of them. I go every Thursday for Mass. Today I was at Westhills Village.

Nursing home Masses are notoriously chaotic. it is not uncommon for the facility to bring everyone to Mass, protestant and Catholic alike, who isn't doing something else. One of the priests here loves to tell the story of having to stop Mass and rescue a woman who was being choked by another resident who decided to steal her oxygen tank. People with dementia say a whole variety of hysterical things that are hard not to laugh at while attempting to pray.

The people at Westhills Village are relatively healthy, and most get around quite well. There is, however, one gentleman who is not very mobile, and he is deaf as a post. Celebrating Mass with him around is something of a comedy show. I begin Mass as usual and he shouts, "Who is this priest?" I proclaim the Gospel, and he shouts, "Speak up!" I speak up, and he shouts, "Speak up!" I get to my homily, and I am nearly shouting and he responds, "Speak up!" By the time I reach the general intercessions, I am hoarse from trying my make him hear me.

All of this would probably really annoy me except for one thing. After communion, as I purify the sacred vessels, the deaf man begins his own prayers, and because he can't hear, he doesn't know that he prays them audibly. They are clearly memorized; he has prayed them for a long time. But he prays them with incredible devotion. Most of the time, I stop and simply pray with him in silence as he prays aloud. Here is a man who appreciates the Eucharist.

And That's How I Became a Dinosaur

2010-10-19T09:23:00.000-07:00

I left the Cathedral Rectory last night and headed toward the ranch to begin my day off a few hours earlier than usual. My youngest brother and his wife and kids are home for a few days, and I wanted to have plenty of time to spend with them. Everyone was in bed when I arrived, so the boys didn't know that I had come.

It should be noted that I have, since childhood, been a notorious snorer. My mother accuses me of inhaling small mammals in my sleep, and of pulling the curtains from the windows. I can't say that I have ever noticed this quality within myself, but it is telling that I am never required to share a room when I travel with others.

Last night, after a couple of hours of television, I shut off the lights and fell asleep on the couch. This morning, I awoke to Hope telling my parents that when she went to get the boys up, they were awake but terrified to leave their room. I don't suppose I would have left my room either if I thought that there was a dinosaur in the living room.

What's in a Pheasant?

2010-10-18T10:26:00.000-07:00

Exodus 16

From my experience, in a pheasant, one finds all of the entrails common to birds, a great deal of millet, sunflower seeds, or corn, and, at least the ones that I have seen, a small quantity of lead shot.

Saturday marked my debut as a pheasant hunter. This event ran concurrently with the opening day of pheasant season in South Dakota. Along with two fathers and their sons, I traveled east toward Presho, and arrived in prime pheasant country just before noon when shooting could legally begin. By the end of the day, five guns had brought down fourteen birds, one shy of our daily limit. Of the fourteen, I was responsible for two.

In early middle school, I attended a hunter safety course, and that fall acquired my first hunting license. I drove my father nearly mad asking him to accompany me as I searched for a deer. It was the youth season, so I was allowed to shoot only does. Dad required that I shoot his old lever action rifle with open sights. It was a rite of passage, I guess. Near the end of the youth season, I finally shot a deer. It was very young, and my shot was poor. I hit it in the spine, and Dad and I had to rush the couple hundred yards to it to finish the kill up close. The ugliness of that kill more or less eliminated any desire that I had to hunt thereafter. Moreover, I have always been a bit of a softy when it comes to animals, and I just didn't enjoy taking life. Once, after the deer incident, I shot a skunk that had been wandering a bit close to the house. I was sick about having done so for days afterward.

Time, an education in philosophy, and too many near misses with wildlife on the South Dakota roadways have made me callous, I guess. When I shot on Saturday, I felt no compunction. It was a beautiful day, and as its end was drawing near, my only concern was that I would not be the only hunter in the vehicle to finish the day without a bird of my own. In that regard, as I have already noted, I was not disappointed. Two of the roosters pictured above met their demise at my hand.

Killing is inherent to hunting. Yet, I find that hunting has little to do with killing. Let those who suffer a perverted blood lust find satisfaction in the hillbilly brawls called "ultimate fighting." True, some men are boors who approach hunting of all sorts as an opportunity to kill whatever wanders the earth. These men are weak, violent, and cowardly. It is not them of whom I speak.

There are, instead, men who know hunting to have the power to speak to loftier ideals. Hunting, they have learned, speaks to men being men together. It speaks to fathers initiating their sons, of boys becoming men as the elders bestow on the younger news roles as custodians of wisdom and tradition. It speaks to people remembering that they live only because of the bounty of the earth that God has given them for sustenance. It speaks to the truth that God never intended the pinnacle of his creation to live his life in an office in front of a computer screen. It speaks to virtue - to pride, honesty, integrity, patience, perseverance, and endurance. In a word, in hunting, one finds the first steps toward a remedy for many of the ills that plague men these days.

A few pheasants doesn't seem bad price to pay for that.

Advice From St. Norbert

2010-10-10T14:57:00.000-07:00

I have frequently commented that one of my favorite things to do as a priest is to hear confessions. This love does not arise out of some sort of prurient interest, but because it has been a powerful sacrament in my own spiritual life, and I love the opportunity to be a part of seeing God at work in such incredible ways in the lives of others.

Hearing confessions is deeply humbling. How is it that I forgive the sins of those who are far less sinful and far more contrite than myself. That is one of the great mysteries of Holy Orders. The most humbling confessions, however, are those of priests. More than that, I cannot really say, but I am reminded once again how much we need your prayers. St. Norbert summarized well the situation in which we priests find ourselves. "Beware, O Priest, lest what was said of Jesus on the Cross should also be said of you. 'He saved others but he cannot save himself.'"

Why I should be Busy

2010-10-09T11:10:00.000-07:00

I am a big fan of video games. From the time my parents introduced the first Nintendo into our home when I was a child until now, I have enjoyed playing electronic games. Though I no longer possess a game system of my own (the reasons for which will become apparent in a moment), there is a vast array of games to be played on the internet. I first discovered this in college, and I have been hooked ever since.

Of late, I find that I have a lot of work to get done. Most of it involves sitting at my desk making telephone calls asking people for money. There are benefits to this. I speak to people I would not otherwise meet, I learn about things going on in their lives that the parish would not otherwise know, and I have the opportunity to minister to people who didn't know they were in need of ministry. Regardless of these things, making phone calls to ask for money is not something I enjoy.

I also need to train several people to be altar servers. That part is fine. But I need to call or email and find a time when they can all do it. I have been planning a prayer group for high school boys which I am almost ready to initiate. I just need to sit down and write my plan and advertise it. I should also spend some time promoting a variety of events that will be happening in the diocese in the next few months. To do this effectively, I need to make personal phone calls to people.

My desk is a mess, as is the top of my dresser. There are some errands I should run. There are some old friends that I should call.

There are a hundred things that I should be doing, and because there are a hundred things, I don't even want to begin. So, instead, I decide to play a game until the mood to get my works done comes upon me.

I'll let you know how that works out.

For clarification, I have also been gone, first to Caritas last week, and then to Clergy Days this week, which has prevented me from posting much. In the interim, I have also been in the midst of one appointment after another, as well as preparing lessons for religious ed and RCIA. I don't spent the whole day playing computer games . . .

Newsweek is a Dirty Liberal Rag

2010-10-01T23:06:00.000-07:00

It seems to me that American Society is finally acknowledging that something about the nature and quality of masculinity as demonstrated in the lives of American men has gone deeply awry. While this is a topic that has been on my own heart for some time now (I have written about it on this blog repeatedly), I tend to think that Newsweek is probably the publication least well equipped to deal with the question. A publication that almost weekly derides traditional religious values and relishes every event that tarnishes the reputations of those who subscribe to any traditional religious practice (except Liberal Protestantism, which is hardly even a religion anymore, and Liberal Judaism, which resembles real Judaism only slightly) can hardly be expected to offer a sustainable, realistic, and most importantly, true vision of what shape masculinity ought to take.

Newsweek, with its recent cover story on the topic, can take a flying leap. Until Newsweek is prepared to admit that almost every social ill facing this nation can be traced to a failure of men to be men and fathers to be fathers, every move to address questions of masculinity will be necessarily impoverished and often dangerously wrong. Until such time that Newsweek acknowledges that abortion, gay marriage, liberalized attitudes toward sex, and the glorification of the masculinization of women while simultaneously downplaying traditional femininity only exacerbate this problem, they will remain a part of the problem with nothing to offer as regards arriving at a solution.

Until that time, I suggest the following alternatives:

St. Joseph Covenant Keepers

As St. Joseph's Covenant Keepers, we are not just concerned with our own families. We will also strive for a Christlike concern for the spiritual and material welfare of other families in our community, in our parish, and in other localities throughout the world.

These eight commitments are not easy to follow, just as following Christ in any area of life takes one down a narrow road. The broad way appears easy. In reality, it only serves to lure the unsuspecting down the path of heartache and overwhelming hardship. Watered-down attempts to prop up contemporary family life are doomed in the face of modern pressures against marriage and the family. The solution to the family needs of our day begins with a call to husbands and fathers to follow the high calling of Christian fatherhood.

The Art of Manliness: Reviving the lost art of manliness

Includes blog posts, a podcast, and tips about everything from family and relationships to personal grooming. This is not a Christian site, but it is a helpful one.

Ransomed Heart Ministries

The author of Wild at Heart runs this site. It also has blog posts, a podcast, and a wide variety of other helpful resources for men and fathers. Though not Catholic, this man should be.

Abandonment

2010-09-30T12:12:00.000-07:00

About a week ago I had the opportunity to address a number of young mothers about the vocation to motherhood. Among other things, I described the beauty and holiness of living their lives sacrificing for the good of their children, recognizing that the future in which they invest so much is a future over which they have no control.

It occurred to me yesterday, after a conversation with a pregnant mother that this phenomenon is most especially pronounced during pregnancy itself. A woman is given a life to protect, and yet, even though she might do all of the right things, she has little control over the outcome of the pregnancy. There is nothing she can do to ensure that she will carry the baby to term, and that it will be born healthy. She must simply abandon the pregnancy and the baby entrusted to her to God's care.

As a result of this, the mother must hand over her entire pregnancy to God, and adopt a deep trust in his goodness, love, and providence. There is something we can all learn from this fact. We are all called to live, as it were, like pregnant women, trusting in God and hoping in his goodness.

This is just one more thing that we all learn from our mothers.

A Life That Mattered

2010-09-20T22:49:00.000-07:00

Charles de Foucauld, a failure by any worldly standard, died faithful to that to which he had been called.

"When you have done all you have been commanded, say, 'We are unprofitable servants; we have done what we were obliged to do." Luke 17:10

It was my great pleasure to celebrate the Sunday Masses in Ft. Pierre over the weekend. I have been there several times previously as a priest, and I was there on a number of occasions as a seminarians. Over the course of these visits, I have come to know a particular couple relatively well. Like a feral cat that is tamed by the regular ministrations of a kindly old woman, these two have wooed me into a quiet comfort in their presence. I had not expected this, as they have some rather vehement convictions which they are ready to share with whomever is around to listen. I don't necessarily disagree with their convictions, but I am sometimes intimidated by the fervor with which they hold them. Regardless, as I say, I have grown rather fond of them.

On Saturday evening, I was invited to join them for dinner. While in their home, they told me that the husband is suffering from pancreatic cancer. It is terminal, though it remains unclear exactly how long he will abide in this earthly dwelling among the Church Militant. As we talked, he spent a great deal of time thinking aloud about how God would choose to use him in these final days or weeks or months. That conversations drew me into reflection about our desire to lead meaningful lives.

All of us, I think, want our lives to be important. All of us want to die believing that we did something significant, and that the world is better because we were in it. It is not uncommon, as I talk with the elderly and the lonely, that they spend a great deal of time talking about who they once were and what they used to do. I am often saddened as I leave to realize that the duration of the conversation has been an exercise in finding significance. "Was I important?" they all seem to ask.

There are lots of ways to answer this question. From the worldly view, most of us are relatively inconsequential. Few of us will be elected to office. Few of us will be famous, and few of us will have someone who visits our grave more than two or three generations from now. To desire to be important in this way is decidedly contrary to a Christian outlook on life. It is for this reason that it is essential that we approach life asking ,"What is God asking me to do?"

A priest at St. Paul Seminary preached powerfully one day as the year was nearing its end and as seminarians were undergoing annual evaluations. He commented that while all of us are naturally inclined to worry that we might be asked to leave formation, it would be worth while to remember that our goal is to accomplish that which God has called us to. He pointedly asked, "What if God has brought you to the seminary only because your presence here was essential in preparing the man next to you to become a priest? What if, having accomplished the missions for which he called you here, he permits that you would be asked to leave? Should this be the case, who are you to complain?"

This is where the question of the significance of my life can really take on new meaning, because it suggests that as long as I have done what God has called me to do, I have lived a worthwhile life My life has been important. I have left the world different and better. And I may never, in this life, know how.

In the end, we must all come to recognize that I serve God not mostly because of what I get out of it, but because he is God and I am not, and as a result of this fact, I owe him my humble obedience. The paradox of it is that I find, in doing what I am asked only because I am asked to do so, that I am rewarded with peace and joy. From these, perhaps we will arrive at the conclusion that while we may have only been unprofitable servants, doing only what we were obliged to do, we have merited the most significant kind of life - an eternal one spent in the loving embrace of the master.

Wishy-Washy Thoughts on Tarantino

2010-09-10T12:46:00.000-07:00

"Kill Bill -- Vol. 1" (Miramax), opens with the old proverb, "Revenge is a dish best served cold." After sitting through the flick's 90 minutes of unabated carnage, one would agree a more fitting maxim would have read, "This movie is a dish best not served."

So write the cinema reviewers for the US Conference of Catholic Bishops. To a great extent, I guess I agree with them. The films of Quentin Tarantino are filled with gratuitous violence, crude language, and other very graphic imagery from time to time. These are certainly not films for children, nor, perhaps, as the USCCB reviews suggest, for anyone else. I think that those who write these reviews, however, sometimes miss the forest for the trees.

Both volumes of "Kill Bill" are graphically violent (decapitations, rape, blood-spurting limbs, etc . . .). Some people watch the films because they find such violence entertaining. Perhaps Tarantino himself finds such violence entertaining. Nevertheless, to entirely dismiss the films as so much trash because of the violence is to overlook a deeply important allegory. The film critics write in their review of the second volume, "Catholic viewers should not be blinded to the fact that, despite its hip veneer, the film's underlying theme of revenge is incompatible with the Christian understanding of justice and forgiveness." I think they are dead wrong. These two films, viewed as a whole, are demonstrative of what happens to the soul of a person who fails to forgive. The main character of the films, in a desire for revenge, is willing to destroy almost anything that stands in her way. The desire for revenge has so blinded her that she seems unable to see what she is destroying around her as she hacks, chops, and shoots her way toward her goal. Yet, how often have each of us, in a desire for revenge, done similar things? How often have we done serious damage to our relationships with others just to get one up on an opponent? How often have we trampled the dignity of another to gain an advantage over another person? It seems to me that Tarantino's violence gives a visual representation of what happens to us and to others when we refuse to forgive. Don't get my wrong; Tarantino's "Kill Bill" films are sickeningly bloody. Nevertheless, I suggest that we need to have a look at what our unwillingness to forgive does in our lives and the lives of others. The result of our own spiritual violence is perhaps less visibly horrifying, but no less destructive, and no less sinful.

I am not sure that we should watch "Kill Bill." As with St. Ignatius when he read his books about heroes and victories in war, these films left me feeling unsettled. Likewise, they also made me a little more sensitive to people who confess a refusal to forgive. Tarantino captures with incredibly graphic imagery, what I cannot accomplish with words alone. Tarantino's films explore the utter ugliness of sin and the complete emptiness one experiences when one finally attains one's vengeance. The reviewers of "Kill Bill" are wrong. The films' treatment of revenge and the true consequences thereof are deeply consonant with the "Christian understanding of justice and forgiveness."

I am not saying that everyone should rush out and rent these films. I am saying, though, that when one decides to avoid "Kill Bill," one should do so because the graphic nature of the violence can be very disturbing. One should be careful to conclude, however, that the films teach no Christian moral.

Spiritual Warts

2010-09-07T23:29:00.000-07:00

Stay sober and alert. Your opponent, the Devil, is prowling like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour. Resist him, solid in your faith. 1 Peter 5:8-9

The Evil One's ways are insidious and terrifyingly subtle. After weeks of wreaking havoc in my life, I only finally caught him at it today.

If my mother is to be trusted (and I think she is), it has not been unnoticed that I have been uncharacteristically quiet on this blog. She threatened to stop reading if I didn't start writing more often. She was right; I have been lax about keeping this place up-to-date. Unfortunately, the discipline of writing about which I spoke when I first undertook this project, for some time, has been a burden more than a source of insight and consolation. I have found it difficult to find anything of substance to inspire me to lay pen to paper (or finger to keyboard, as the case may be). This malaise, however, was not characteristic of the blog alone. I could feel it creeping through most of the facets of my life. Bedtime became later and later, and getting up time responded accordingly. I often couldn't think of anything nice to say, and still felt it necessary to say something anyway. Temptations to a whole variety of sins were constant, and my constitution weak. Something was clearly amiss, but I hadn't really figured out what it was. "Keep your boundaries, seek balance in life, and find someone to talk to," I advised myself.*

It is said that to remove a wart, one must draw out the core. Treatments that don't do this will work for a while, but the wart will eventually return. So it is with a spiritual problem. Treatments that address only the surface will likely not be lasting. So it has been with me. Finally, today, it became clear what was happening and I feel like I can address the issue head on.

It began this way. After a very stressful meeting with a variety of people at the school, I was taken aside by a priest whose opinion matters a great deal to me. Among other things, he suggested that my personality was often off-putting to people, that I was intimidating to many, that I was disrespectful to some, and that I had perhaps irreparably damaged a number of relationships with certain people with whom I had believed myself to be making great progress. I was initially grateful for the frankness of the conversation, but undeniably hurt. Intellectually, I understood everything he had said and found at least some of it to be accurate. It was in this moment, though, that the Tempter found a crack through which he could mount a powerful assault. As I pondered this conversation, he whispered disastrous lies to me, and I bought them, hook, line, and sinker.

"The Transfiguration" - Raphael (Luke 9:28-36)

John Eldridge describes the various stages through which a man must progress and be initiated in order to truly become a man. He also acknowledges that much of this initiation must be done by God himself, because human fathers, like all of creation, still suffer the effects of original sin. A human father, however, plays a role in cultivating the seed bed in which God the father might plant and harvest. Unfortunately, many fathers these days are ill equipped to do even this with much skill. As a result, almost all men, to one degree or another, labor to know that they are good enough. Eldridge summarizes this entire phenomenon by proposing two questions a man asks himself: 1) Do I delight my father? 2) Do I have what it takes?

It is crucial for all men to receive an affirmative answer to these questions. Without such affirmation, a man is likely wander through life looking for any substitute that will, even for a brief moment, affirm him in his masculinity. For many men, this substitute takes the form of a desire to control and the carrying of a facade that a man presents to the world. This facade is often so convincing that the man believes it about himself. Thus, for a man, one of Satan's most wicked tricks is to slip in when the facade is cracked and to create a facade of his own. When something occurs to threaten the facade (like a frank conversation with someone), the man realizes that there is some part of himself that is not being entirely truthful. As a result, he casts about seeking some indication and validation of who he really is. The Accuser wastes no opportunity to suggest to the man the "truth" of who he is. As a result, a man who believes himself to be in control, self-possessed, and a gallant warrior for some cause is easily convinced that he is a loser, a weakling, a liar and a coward who cannot control himself, and who does not have what it takes. The second step of the Evil One's strategy is to then provide temptation to sins by which a man can affirm within himself the lies the Evil One has been telling. These sins become the mortar that holds the new edifice together, and without some practice in seeing these evil designs, a man will eventually have allowed Satan to establish a fortress within his soul. I had such a fortress once. Satan longs to reestablish it. Over the past few weeks, I allowed him to begin building.

"St. Michael the Archangel" - Tadolini

So today, it finally occurred to me that I had allowed myself to be convinced that I was not beloved, and that I did not have what it takes. I had entered into a pattern of sinfulness that reaffirmed these beliefs. These things all came together on I90 between New Underwood and Rapid City as I returned from the ranch. Instead of going right to the Cathedral, I drove out to Piedmont, found Fr. Ray Diesch, and made a good confession. Tonight I prayed better than I have prayed in a long time. I feel fresh, alive, and happy. I am the beloved of my father. I do have what it takes.

St. Michael the Archangel, pray for me.

* I am currently without a Spiritual Director, and have been for some time, as Fr. Kroll who previously directed me has moved on to bigger and better things. This is a very bad situation for a priest to find himself in. I am without only because I have been consistently reassured by the Chancery that "the Bishop is working on bringing someone in to replace Fr. Kroll. Just be patient." The last few weeks of his tenure here were understandably hectic and certain things were to inevitably fall through the cracks. It appears that Fr. Kroll's replacement is one of them.

Labor Day

2010-09-06T17:43:00.000-07:00

A lady on the local news this evening remarked that Labor Day is a family day.

I decided to take some time off starting on Friday. That day I spent mostly in bed catching up on sleep and resting. I joined my father for lunch and a trip to Menards where he needed to purchase wood pellets for the stove at home on the ranch. I went to a high school soccer game that evening, and then went to spend the night with my next younger brother in Custer.* The next morning, we left (relatively) early for a day of fishing, between the two of us, we caught enough trout and perch to feed the family. but we threw them all back. One needn't eat too many fish in a summer.

After collecting an ice cream cake with an image of the Grim Reaper to celebrate Mom's birthday, we met the rest of the family at the ranch. My sister-in-law had gone to Wasta to collect wild plums. Sunday afternoon was spent turing them into jelly. My grandmother came out from Sturgis to join the fun. All in all, in there were five adults, two kids, two cats, and two dogs in the house as well as a guest living in the unheated, unlit small shed with a bed we refer to as the granny shack.**

As always, time with my brothers and nephews (and a niece in utero) reminds me that, though I love them all, there are many benefits to celibacy. Among them is the experience of silence. In truth, I was not entirely disappointed when, shortly after lunch today, the grandkids, the grandma, and my brother and sister-in-law headed back to town. They had things to finish before returning to work and school tomorrow.

I, on the other hand, will be remaining one more day. On Wednesday, I will return to the real world, and will hit the ground running. Middle School formation begins that evening. It won't be long before I begin wondering if it isn't time to take a vacation again. Luckily, the ranch is close to Rapid City and I can come here often.

I have never given much consideration to labor day or its meaning. Most often it has been just one more day when I have to work while the rest of the country rests. Perhaps the lady interviewed for the news is correct, though. For us, this year anyway, Labor Day was a day for family.

* All of this very nearly came to nought when Fr, Mike's plane was delayed on the way back from Spokane. It appeared that i would have to take a wedding for him as well as several other things. It was a blessed surprise when he called me Friday night to tell me that he was taxiing to the gate in Rapid City.

** The granny shack is so named because my parents have mutually threatened, since the building's creation, to require their respective mothers-in-law to live in the shack whenever visiting the ranch.

Happy 50th

2010-09-04T18:42:00.000-07:00

Todays marks the 50th anniversary of my mother's birth. With all due respect, fifty years seems like a very long time, a full half century, in fact. In her lifetime, deeply important events have happened: Vietnam, the Cuban Missal Crisis, the Kennedy Assassinations, the fall of Communism, the election of JPII, Watergate, the Challenger, NAFTA, the map of the human genome, etc . . . There is a surreal quality in recognizing that so many of these events, significant to me only as historical occurrences, were taking place as she learned to walk, to talk, to ride a bicycle, as she began school, as she met my father, and as she became my mother. There is a way, I suppose, in which all of us sort of assume that the world revolves around us. As a result, as I write this, I am sort of struck by the fact that even though she has spent the better part of her life as my mother, she had a life before. I have a hard time trying to see her as anything other than Mom.

On this occasion, there is a great deal that I wish I could write, but somehow none of the words seem proper. I wish there were a funny story or even a serious one that would make the point. Such a story won't come to mind. Perhaps on another day when there are fewer grandchildren and fewer dogs in the house, I will be able to revisit this topic. For now, however, Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you.

Soundtrack

2010-08-30T19:58:00.000-07:00

My family has always been a musical one. As a child, my father rode home from town, resting his head on his father's lap, listening as my Grandpa Roy sang Little Joe the Wrangler and Strawberry Roan. My own childhood trips home from town were filled with much the same. When we didn't sing these songs, we sand along with recordings of Bob Seager, Ian Tyson, The Eagles, Credence Clearwater Revival, and sometimes Garth Brooks.. My dad is a guitar picker, as are my brothers. I don't play much by way of instruments, but I sing. Incessantly. In eighth grade, I tormented a girl by singing, "My Hat, It has Three Corners" for the better part of a day. While I cannot say that I was disappointed to torment her, the singing was more of a compulsion or a reflex. I couldn't help myself. I sang enough in the halls of the college seminary to have it occur in the senior roast as I was leaving that place. The same happened again as I finished my theological training. The truth is, I possess an entire soundtrack that runs almost ceaselessly through my head, and the music changes to accommodate the situation. Here is a sampling of today's fare:

I walked into the office of Shari, our youth director, and immediately, this song was playing in my head:

Later in the day, I went over to the school to repose the Blessed Sacrament, which had been exposed for adoration. The reposition hymn was with me for a while.

At dinner this evening, we ate broccoli over which one of the priests had melted velveta cheese. It was a bit of a stretch but my mind finally happened on the right song for the moment (I'm not joking).

I looked at some football pictures from a recent game to the stylings of Bonnie Tyler.

How It Should Be

2010-08-26T23:22:00.001-07:00

I write this with a certain degree of hesitation, as it reflects somewhat critically on an institution within Rapid City toward which many Catholics bear a great deal of devotion and zeal. Moreover, it was recently suggested that I approach my relationship with said institution as though it were an enemy to be defeated. Though I am deeply fond of the institution and possess a deep love for those associated with it, this assessment is not entirely false. This topic has been weighing on me for some time; what I am going to say needs saying. In reading this, one should not assume that I speak magisterially. Such is not my role in the Church. Mine is a particular reading of the teachings of the Church, and though I believe it to be true, reasonable, and supported by the teachings of the Church, it does not necessarily represent the opinions of those legitimately responsible for the philosophy and operation of the institutions about which I opine.

The foundation of all reality is the Holy Trinity. This truth, so fundamental to all of Christianity, is the litmus test by which all Christian denominations determine who is and is not legitimately considered Christian. It is a basic Dogma common to all of Christianity that God is one while simultaneously consisting in three persons, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. These persons are distinct from one another; they are not various modes under which a single God operates in his relation with man and the world. Nevertheless, the thing which makes God the Father God is common as well to God the Son and God the Holy Spirit. These three persons exist within a relation of love so intense that from this love flows all of creation upon which the Holy Trinity has left his fingerprints. Creation - all of reality - is reflective of this God albeit in imperfect ways. Among the things which reflect God is man, who, unlike the rest of creation, is made in God's image and likeness.

It is a fundamental assumption of Orthodox Catholic Theology and reasonable philosophies that all things exist for a purpose. A thing is known by the purpose for which it is created. One will always necessarily not know what a hammer is unless one knows first and foremost the purpose for which the hammer exists. One need not know how a hammer is made, of what it is made, or by whom it is made to know that it exists for the purpose of driving a nail. So it is with the human person. We will never know ourselves until we know the purpose for which we are made. Though the ink spilled in answering this question is voluminous, three short propositions seem sufficient to address the question.

1) God created man out of love.
2) God created man to know him, to love him, and to serve him in this life, and to be happy with him in the next life.
3) Jesus Christ fully reveals man to himself, and in Christ, man discovers that he is only truly happy (thus, only truly what he is made to be) and only serves and loves God well when, out of love, he sacrifices himself for the sake of becoming a gift to another. This sacrificial love is prerequisite to happiness in the life to come.

It is further an assumption of all reasonable philosophies that all actions of a thing are ultimately directed toward the final end of a thing. In other words, the action of a hammer in being lifted, of being swung, and of striking the head of a nail are intermediate ends that move the hammer toward its ultimate end of driving a nail. So too with man should his actions all be deliberate movements toward his final end (service and love of God in this life and happiness with him in the next). Man, unlike other created things, however, finds that besides the angels, he alone is free. He alone is able to choose actions that do not coincide with his final end. Such actions are the things to which we refer when we use the word "sin." Man is devastatingly corrupted by the reality of sin in the world, and as a result, cannot, without the aid of grace (i.e. the presence and action of God in our lives) always choose those actions which direct man toward his end. God, recognizing the plight of his creation, through his son, has created a conduit by which man can acquire the necessary grace. This conduit is what Catholics commonly refer to as the Church.

Most obviously, the Church attains this purpose in the administration of the sacraments. The Church assists God's people, though, in other significant ways. For this purposes of this writing, the Church assists in a significant way by helping people understand reality correctly. Most specifically, the Church teaches people what is true. This Truth she teaches is all directly consequent of the propositions suggested above. As a result, the Church, in all of her institutions must, by her very nature, insist upon these propositions and all of their logical consequences. Any institution, be it parish, hospital or orphanage, that does not reflect and teach these propositions in all of her actions presents an impoverished and inadequate representation of reality.

As a result of all of this, it becomes particularly incumbent upon a Catholic School to ensure that in everything it does, the foremost goal is always that every student would attain paradise in the life to come. A Catholic School which is not determined to do this in every aspect of its life ceases to be Catholic. Thus every aspect of Catholic Education must bear in mind creation's inherent reflection of its creator. The Sciences and Mathematics should emphasize the orderliness of creation, and what can be known of God through these disciplines. The liberal arts and humanities should focus on the reason for man's existence, his historical self-reflection on this question, and his historical response to his own answers. When man has answered these questions incorrectly (e.g. Islam, Protestantism, the Enlightenment, Modernism), Catholic Education should not hesitate in saying so. Moreover, the discipline of history should be addressed in such a way as to reveal God's Providence at work as he draws all of time toward its consummation. Religion classes should be the centerpiece of a Catholic Education, and therein, the logical details of the propositions I noted above should be taught unflinchingly. These lessons must be reinforced by the educators assigned to the other academic disciplines.

All extracurricular activity should be designed to continue to promote the lessons taught within the classroom. In a particular way, athletics should help students learn stewardship of the bodies God has given them, and more importantly, athletics should become the testing ground for character and virtue. As a result, every coach must be an exemplary model of these same virtues. The teaching and reinforcement of virtue should be a goal the precedes the goal of winning. Likewise, with theater and the other fine arts, students should develop a deeper appreciation for beauty (beauty reflects truth, after all) which becomes a window through which one catches a glimpse of God. Any other goal of extracurricular activity must be secondary to the first aim of Catholic Education.

Catholic education must be shaped by a Catholic Anthropology. It must take seriously the teachings about who man is and how his life is to be lived. Catholic Education must take seriously the Church's teachings as regards the differences between men and women and the complementarity (as opposed to the undifferentiated equality assumed by popular culture) of the genders. Catholic Education must take seriously the fact that parents must always remain the principle educators of their children. As a result, Catholic Schools should do everything in their power to insist upon a vibrant practice of the faith in the home lives of their students. Finally, Catholic Schools must see themselves as a powerful agent of change and evangelization in a culture inimical to the aims of Christ and his Church. As a result, the Catholic School must deliberately remove itself from the center of the culture, as the state run public school system has systematically placed itself at the center of culture. A Catholic Schools should recognize that it is an agent of the Church but not the Church itself. In other words, the Catholic School must not usurp the place of the local parish, which is the principle means by which the Church accomplishes her mission in the lives of lay Catholics.

It is therefore my opinion that, though well-intentioned they may be, Catholic Schools who do not share this vision and do not zealously attempt to implement it, even at the risk of losing tuition dollars, enrollments, and football or basketball games, misrepresent themselves when naming themselves Catholic and do a great disservice to Christ and his Church.

It Sucks!

2010-08-20T15:07:00.000-07:00

"It Sucks!" I hear this refrain an aweful lot these days as the kids begin to read the books that they have supposedly been reading all summer long in preparation for the new school year. I find that that more often than not, the kids are profoundly mistaken in their assessment of the texts. The following is a list of books about which I have heard the kids say, "It sucks."

1) Silas Marner

2) 1984

3) The Pearl

4) Johnny Tremain

5) 1776

6) Jane Eyre

7) Night

Fr. Tyler's Advice for Men Just Leaving for Seminary

2010-08-19T19:14:00.000-07:00

These are the things someone should have told me (or that I should have listened to) before I went to Seminary for the first time:

1) Do not presume that you are called to be a priest or that you deserve to be there. Remain open, and allow the Church to discern whether or not your call is authentic....

2) Forget everything you think you know. If you already have all the answers, there isn't much reason to go to seminary.

3) Do not presume to know more than your professors or formators.

4) Do not presume that the other seminarians know more than the professors or formators.

5) Do not presume that any class is unimportant.

6) Stay close to the guys from Rapid City.

7) Form good relationships with your classmates.

8) Avoid sarcasm.

9) Avoid negativity. If you find that your commentary about things is mostly in the form of critique, you need to have a serious talk with your spiritual director.

10) When challenged about attitudes or behaviors, do not build walls to defend them. Accept the criticism and then determine how to address the attitude or behavior within yourself.

11) If you feel hurt because you are being asked to change, then you are not being open. You have gone to the seminary because you need to be changed.

12) Pray every day.

13) Be humble. There are some things you may already know and there are some things you may already do well, but you are a work in progress. You are still a long way from priesthood.

14) There have been lots of seminarians before you, and there will be lots of seminarians after you. You are still a lay man, and as a seminarian, you have no special status in the Church. Do not adopt an attitude of entitlement.

15) Remember who you are and where you come from. Rapid City is not Peoria, nor LaCrosse, nor Winona.

And we're off

2010-08-18T20:05:00.000-07:00

The formation season was inaugurated tonight as we hosted the first of two explanatory meetings for students and the parents of students seeking the Sacrament of Confirmation. We set the dates for Safe Environment Training for the youth, and we started making copies of things.

Photocopies are the true sign that the new academic year has begun.

Get ready tree-pulpers. The Cathedral is on the move.

All Good Things . . .

2010-08-17T13:04:00.000-07:00

"Father Time"

These days are marked by a bitter-sweet quality. Over the last three months, I have spent a great deal of time with kids from the parish, seminarians, priests, and the bishop. I have been out late at night to see the meteor shower. I have been up early to celebrate Sunday Masses in the Cathedral Parish for the first time in weeks (months?). I have spoken with college students home with their families for a short summer visit. I have spent long night hours discussing big questions. I met a gypsy, I cursed the motorcycles, and I traveled to the northernmost edge of the state. I climbed Bear Butte and then I climbed Harney Peak. With the help of good young people, I have grown my own peas and tomatoes, I have harvested sun ripened cherries, and I have seen a variety of movies I would likely never have seen otherwise. I have watched some people achieve minor feats of heroism in battle with rattle snakes, disease, death, the changing natures of relationships, and the tumultuous world of adolescent romance. I survived Watiki and Storm Mountain, and I have acquired a magnificent farmer's tan. I have learned that I love fishing and I have shot skeet with more accuracy than I have ever shot before. I have discovered beautiful things about who God has created me to be and in many conversations, I have tried to articulate how I have been blessed this summer. This summer . . .

The motorcycles have left the Black Hills, and they have taken the last days of summer away with them. Next week classes will resume. The seminarians with whom I have spent a great deal of time will be returning to the venerable halls of academia. The summer jobs and frequent bouts of boredom that have been the summer fare of high school students have already begun to be displaced by sports practices. What were long hot days and cool free nights filled with speculation about the nature of goodness and truth will soon become short days burdened under under the weight of homework for the kids and religious education for me. Afternoons in the sun will evolve into afternoons in the office. Within a few days, Bishop Cupich will arrive at Rapid City Regional Airport with a suitcase in one hand, and a one-way ticket to Spokane in the other.

These days leave me a little melancholy. It is as though time has been paused for three months, and now, at heightened speed, I must make up that time, I must age.

Today, however, I will go fishing. For one more day at least, I will defy Father Time.

St. Max and Max

2010-08-14T20:12:00.000-07:00

This morning, during one of the brief periods during which I was conscious long enough to hit the snooze button, I receives a text message from the Jacques Daniel Family. "Father, we missed Mass this morning, and we wanted to bring Max. Have you said Mass yet? Will you be saying Mass?"

Eventually, bleary eyed, I got myself out of bed and remembered that today was the feast of St. Maximilian Kolbe, the great martyr who gave his life in a concentration camp so that a Jewish father could live. Jacques' son Max was named for him, so it was a pleasure, at 1:30 to celebrate Mass with them and to remind the kids that even now, like St. Maximilian, they can begin laying down their loves in love of others by sharing Legos and other toys and listening to their parents. Following Mass I joined them briefly for Pepi's Pizza and began making some plans for my next fishing excursion. (I am planning on spending a day or two fishing with my next younger brother in the first part of September.)

I don't know about Max Daniel, but I had a pretty good St. Maximilian Day.

St. Clare, the Evangelical Counsels, and Consecrated Virgins

2010-08-11T23:25:00.000-07:00

During the month of January immediately prior to my priestly ordination, my classmates and I made a trip to Rome to study the missionary nature of the Church for a month. At the end of the month, we made our way to Assisi to go on a week-long retreat prior to ordination as required by Canon Law. Assisi is most famous as the birthplace and final resting place of St. Francis. Only slightly less famous, however, was one of his followers, Clare, who dedicated her life to obedience, chastity, and especially poverty. She founded a monastery after the model of Francis' own rule of life and remained superior of the community for some forty years. Today marks her feast day.

The readings assigned to Clare's feast are all about abandoning the riches and niceties of the world in order to follow Christ more closely. It was in Assisi, on retreat, that I really came to understand poverty and its relationship to the other counsels. In prayer it became very clear to me that poverty was first and foremost a spiritual reality. Poverty acknowledges that I am not in charge of my life. Only God can ensure that I will take my next breath. Only he will cause me to rise from sleep in the morning. Only he can initiate the life of intimacy that I long to share with him. Poverty, then, comes in my willingness to submit myself to him and to go where he may lead me without consideration of the cost or of my preferences or of my desires. This relationship is prior to every other relationship in life. Christ comes before family, neighbor, and friend. Christ alone and union with him must be my most prized possession. Resulting from this many choose to adopt physical poverty. It is hard to focus my life on God's will for me when all of my money is being swallowed up in a financial crisis. it is hard to pray when my Dodge pick-up is being beaten by hail. It is hard to love God when I spend my day coveting the iPod or car of the guy down the street.

Chastity and obedience, though distinct counsels, are related to poverty. In obedience, I submit my will to that of another person, believing the other person has been ordained by God to use me for the advancement of God's will and the mission of the Church. In Chastity, I forsake the pleasures of a carnal relationship, preferring to dedicate myself entirely to the union with Christ that will be fully realized only in heaven. St. Clare models these counsels in a heroic way.

Though Clare's feast is celebrated, today also marks the forth anniversary of Susan Safford's consecration to perpetual virginity. Though not religious, Susan and those called to the vocation of consecrated virgin live these evangelical counsels in a real and radical way. They, like priests, but as women, have already begun to live the life of union with God to which all of us aspire. They live and work in the world, acting as leaven in their parishes and communities. Their work is often unseen and silent, without the benefit of a religious community to support them and show them the way to holiness. Though lived in various ways, consecrated virgins share a particular commonality; the most powerful work they do is accomplished in the time they spend praying for the Church, for priests, and for the world. They haven't the benefit of a habit to protect them nor to suggest that the world should take them seriously. They are armed only with the love of God which has pierced their hearts and penetrated their lives so deeply that their lives testify to the profound desire that God has to love each of us as his betrothed. This testimony should spur us all to deeper love of God and a deeper desire for holiness.

This has been the effect of Susan's presence in my life. She is a good and holy woman, and as only a woman can, she manages to point out how I am called higher. Likewise, as only a woman can, she encourages me on the more difficult days. As a seminarian, she was to me both taskmaster and mother. Her role is not entirely different now that I am a priest. She reminds me what I am supposed to be doing, and never lets me forget where my priorities should rest. None of this is cruel or unkind. It is often accomplished through a persistent witness to God's love and fidelity and a willingness to dedicate herself to prayer for me and for my intentions day after day. At times she, with great precision, she demonstrates exactly how and why I am wrong in my opinion or approach to something. She will not abide cowardice or laziness on my part, and reminds me from time to time that I could always sacrifice just a little more to be a better disciple.

I constantly remind seminarians of the debt of gratitude they owe Susan for the work she does in the vocations office. I probably don't thank her often enough for the good she does for me. So, happy anniversary, Susan. And happy Feast of St. Clare.

The Sweet Taste of Victory

2010-08-10T19:11:00.000-07:00

Victory, I have discovered, tastes like trout cooked in butter and lemon pepper. After a week's hiatus I returned to the scene of my last fishing trip, and finally broke the drought. I can now add to my list of firsts "Catching a Trout in a Black Hills Stream" (as well as "Cleaned and cooked a trout by myself"). My comrade today braved poison ivy to bring me the stringer so that I could save the little devil. By the end of the trip, I had caught two worth keeping, and had bites by several little ones. He had caught just one little one which he threw back.

These were not trophy fish, but they were big enough to keep. I suppose the larger was around ten inches. Regardless of the size, I have scored a major victory for myself. In my excitement, I have made Cabelas a great deal richer, and I can barely suppress the swagger when I walk.

Broken Bones and Manly Hearts

2010-08-09T23:34:00.000-07:00

I returned from Totus Tuus on Friday afternoon, spent some time mini-golfing, and seeing a late movie, and then spent Saturday morning shooting skeet. Confessions and a meal with a parishioner kept me busy Saturday afternoon and evening, and a day walking all over creation preparing for World Youth Day with the pilgrims from this diocese wore me out on Sunday. Today was spent in one meeting after another, so that now, at nearly midnight, I finally have a moment to offer a synopsis of sorts on the Totus Tuus boys camp.

This was by far the most injurious camp I have yet attended. Among the casualties were a seminarian who had a severe allergic reaction to something, a sixty year old man with a dislocated shoulder, a teenager who leaped into as opposed to over a bench, and a middle schooler with a broken arm. I was most impressed with the middle schooler. He fell and landed awkwardly on his arm, and though he was in obvious pain, he was able to rotate his arm and make a fist. We compassionately suggested that he "man up." We were slightly concerned that he was still favoring that arm the next morning, but did not decide to send him to the emergency room until he really freaked out when he tried to use that arm to prop himself up during a water game during which he was supposed to lie down on the ground. We were rather astonished when he returned in a cast, and then deeply moved by his strength. He had walked around with a broken arm for nearly an entire day and had complained of his pain very little! What an incredible young man.

There is a certain paradox about Totus Tuus. We spend the week trying to help them become men, while simultaneously giving them permission to play and act like children. They sing ridiculous songs, they learn silly dances. They swim and run and laugh and in the midst of all of this, they pray. It is the prayer that reinforces their manliness. It is an explicit expectation and firmly held conviction that young people have a strong spirituality and that they are capable of holiness. We call them to sanctity. We strive to demonstrate that a life in Christ is deeply compatible with life as a man. We offer them the witness of the saints as a way to begin to see how true masculinity is necessarily focused on Christ, and we provide ample opportunity to discover the ways in which they have chosen the world's way as opposed to the Lord's way. Throughout the week, most of them begin to see and express how deeply they desire to be strong Catholic men, and we assure them that they can. It is beautiful.

Which is not to say that all is perfect. A teenage boy remains a teenage boy. He is still brash, frequently unthinking, sometimes brutal in his assessment of his peers, keenly aware of his own changing body, and mercilessly hopped up on hormones. He still needs to prove himself, and he is filled with the boundless energy of youth. His amygdala is doing all the thinking while his frontal lobe rests on its laurels. So, it would be a lie to say that I wasn't glad for the week to be over. It would be a bigger lie to say that I didn't love being a part of it.

Totus Tuus

2010-08-01T22:01:00.000-07:00

My first experience at a Totus Tuus boys camp (the name derives from JPII's papal motto) occurred the summer prior to my eighth grade year. I was to ride with a group who were traveling to Rapid City from Philip, South Dakota. They were to meet me at the Common Cents. I waited for them at the Conoco, and after failing to find me, they left. It was some time later that my mother came to retrieve me, terrified that I had been abducted because I had not arrived at the camp. I had not bothered to call her, as this was a time before cell phones were widely in use. I was afraid that while inside calling her, my ride would come to the gas station, and not finding me, leave.

The remainder of that summer's camp was much more fun, and it became the first of many such camps I would attend as an adolescent and then as a seminarian.

Last summer I missed the camp. It followed on the heels of my ordination, and I could not justify taking a week away from the parish so soon after beginning my ministry there. This year, for the first time in a decade, I will attend the camp voluntarily. It promises to be a grand old time, but exhausting. While this summer has afforded me many opportunities to go climbing about the paha sapa I can't say that such trips are events I relish. I will be departing tomorrow morning. The high school leaders will come tomorrow afternoon, and the kids arrive on Tuesday afternoon. There are around 50 or middle school boys. They have limitless energy except when asked to do something. They also have the capacity for deep and serious prayer. Needless to say, I will not be blogging for the next several days.

Until now, I have been a part of this only as a leader. This year I go also as a father. I can't wait.

Summer Reading

2010-07-31T10:45:00.000-07:00

I find it difficult to fall asleep at night without having read at least a page or two of something. My favorite day of the month is when my new copy of First Things arrives. This journal, however, can only satisfy for so long. As a result, I have also turned to these books:

The Power and the Glory, Graham Greene

A Mexican priest in the 1930's attempts to escape the persecution that has left most of his confreres in Southern Mexico martyrs. He is deeply sinful, constantly pursued by the atheistic lieutenant who wants him dead, and beleaguered by a toothless man. This novel, often called a theological thriller, reflects on the power of love, and from my perception, on the incredible reality of the sacraments. This priest, in the midst of his own doubts, his own sinfulness, and his own worries, remains a priest by whose hand God's grace is brought to His people.

Wild at Heart, John Eldridge

A penetrating discussion of what makes a man a man, and of how his relationship with his father, his mother, and his wife are all connected to this central question. Eldridge eventually draws men to recognize that manhood must be rooted in a deep and intimate relationship with God the Father. This is a fantastic book. I formulated my homily from its contents last weekend. Though an excellent text,the book, written by an evangelical Christian, does need to be informed by JPII's Theology of the Body.

Gone Tomorrow, Lee Child

I love a little pulp fiction now and then. The thirteenth book in Lee Child's Jack Reacher series, this book is a stretch of the imagination. Reacher, and ex-MP witnesses the suicide of a woman on a train which eventually leads to a crisis involving the FBI, CIA, and Osama bin Laden. Child's books are often bloody and extremely violent. This is no exception, but the quality of writing and the suspense of Child's prior novels are not to be found in this one. In this book, Child is just trying too hard.

The American Short Story (Anthology)

This is a fantastic collection of short stories written by Americans. It includes familiar names like O. Henry, Mark Twain, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Ernest Hemingway as well as other not so familiar names (to me, anyway). I bought this book years ago, and have been slowly working my way through it since then. It has given me a chance to revisit Ambrose Bierce's "Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" and to be introduced for the first time to Frank Stockton's "The Lady of the Tiger" (both of which are must-read stories). I have traveled with the book by train, and have fallen asleep to it at night. If you love American Literature, and if you especially like the short story, this book is for you. As an added bonus, it is currently selling for $5 at Amazon new, and for $.01 used. It will cost you more to ship than to purchase this collection.

The Cure D'Ars, F. Trochu

I started reading this biography of St. John Vianney last summer at the commencement of the year of the priest. I have been slowly working my way through it ever since. I love this book, and the life of the saint inspires me. I have to admit, though, that I find the text a bit intimidating. It can become extremely tedious (I say this having read all of War and Peace) as it relates one act of piety or holiness after another. To skip the book, however, is to skip the life of a priest whose interactions with his people were moving, comical, and deeply holy. His encounters with the devil are of particular interest. This book reminds me that I have a long way to go between here and sanctity. I have yet to finish the book, but one shouldn't rush through the biography of a saint; if you are looking for a good one, this is it.

What are you reading?

The Coolest Thing to Happen This Week

2010-07-29T09:33:00.000-07:00

St. Patrick Driving the Snakes From Ireland

I hate snakes. I hate snakes of all varieties. I believe that the Sacred Scriptures provide compelling evidence of our commission to exterminate them (Cf. Genesis 3:13-15). So, it was with great glee (and a degree of revulsion) that I was informed today that some of the neighborhood boys, while out biking on some of the local trails, found and killed a rattlesnake. I would likely have screamed and then climbed a tree (which would have been sight to behold). They chose, instead, to smash it with a rock. And then they cut its head and rattle off. And then they took it home and ate it. This is by far the coolest thing to happen this week. Kudos, boys.

Of Mice and Men - Blog Edition

2010-07-28T22:04:00.000-07:00

The past week was one of great anticipation for me. As I have already noted, while at my fraternity gathering, I went trout fishing with no success. Such results did not deter me, however, from having determined to go fishing again very soon. Soon, as it turned out, was Tuesday. One of the local teens planned to come with me, and ideally, bring a friend or two. We would depart early in the morning and make a whole day of it.

It was truly spoken that the best laid plans of mice and men go oft awry.

First was the problem of the job. Patrick had to work in the morning and would be unable to leave until around noon. Second, Patrick also recently celebrated his sixteenth birthday, thus requiring him to accomplish another rite of passage. He had to purchase a fishing license. In South Dakota, one can purchase a fishing license along with one's pheasant license, but to do this, a minor must provide his hunter safety card number. (If my perception is accurate, this is required in order to prevent as many sixteen year old boys as possible from carrying a firearm, as boys of that age are not widely recognized to be proficient at keeping track of innocuous pieces of business card sized card stock containing important pieces of personal data. Patrick, though a marvelous young man, is no exception to this rule.) Moreover, neither of us had gotten around to the business of inviting some of his friends until the night before the expedition was to transpire.

Somehow Patrick's mother worked a miracle at the Game, Fish, and Parks office on Tuesday morning, and Patrick had a license by the time I arrived at his house. After a sandwich and promises to have him back by six so that he could return to work, we departed for Custer State Park (I already had the entrance pass to the park after the Harney Peak adventure the day before) searching for a series of dams I had never seen. I only had to make one u-turn before finding the parking area for the dams, and by about 1:45 our lures hit the water. No luck at the first one. We trudged on to the second. Patrick stayed at the dam and cast into the current. I moved further along and cast from the bank. The first spinner did nothing. So too with the second. And the third. But, a lovely green and pink spoon quickly did the trick.

I had soon caught my limit . . .

. . . of little baby trout.

Luckily, baby trout are exceeding dumb. Unfortunately, full sized fourteen inch trout are not. All in all, I hauled in seven of the little devils. It was not quite the fishing experienced I had hoped for, but I did catch fish, even if I couldn't keep them. Which is better than what Patrick did. The big trout were just beginning to rise and feed again as we departed.

I have occasionally wondered how it is that people can fish every weekend, and love it. I am beginning to see why.

Putting on My Fr. DeSmet

2010-07-26T08:45:00.000-07:00

There are days when I long to be a hero and explorer like Fr. DeSmet. The problem with this is that being like Fr. DeSmet would involve a great deal of walking, climbing mountains, and sleeping outdoors. Though growing fonder of such things, I have not yet arrived at the place where I would simply abondon my room to spend a week sleeping in a tent.

I do, however, have my moments. A month or so ago, I climber Bear Butte for the first time in years. Later today, at the bequest of a friend who wants to do so while wearing his cassock, I will be climbing Harney Peak. I have never done this (with or without a cassock). Though I have no intention of wearing a woolen garment that looks like a man-dress*, we will surely draw some stares and perhaps even elicit some curious remarks.

Hilarity is sure to ensue.

* I have no problem with wearing a cassock. In fact, I rather like it, and would wear mine more often in other circumstances. I am not, however, inclined to wear it while climbing the highest peak between the Rocky Mountains and the Atlantic Ocean.

Random Observations

2010-07-22T11:12:00.000-07:00

Teenagers apparently find it quite hysterical to discover that their priest snores like a freight train. Weariness from the weekend ensured that I was out like a light. The unusual position in which I was sleeping ensured a particularly good show for the kids. Fortunately, I will never be required to share a bed.

+++

I tried to tell the kids not to get energy drinks when stopping for snacks and a bathroom on the return trip. I knew they wouldn't listen, but I told them anyway. It didn't really matter. Never underestimate the power of teenage girls to turn the teenage boys into crazy people. Add a cramped ten hour bus ride, and you have a circus before it is over.

+++

It is of little avail to ask kids on a bus to be sure that they have taken everything off of it. Among the collection of lost items this year are a pair of shoes, several water bottles, and a pillow. The shoes, sadly, don't fit.

+++

Cynicism is an art form of which priests are masters. I was with my Caritas group on Monday and Tuesday. The cynicism was thick enough to cut with a knife. As good as it is for priests to be together, we must be careful that we not become bad for each other.

+++

There are no rainbow trout in the Black Hills. For many years now, my father and I have made an annual fishing day. In these trips, neither of us has managed to catch a single fish. Caritas afforded me the opportunity to spend several hours fishing the same waters again. In keeping with tradition, I managed to catch nothing. It is said that the definition of insanity is attempting the same behavior repeatedly hoping to achieve a different result. Perhaps I am insane. Shortly after arriving home, I went to Cabelas and bought more trout lures and some pliers with which to remove said lures. Maybe I will even need a knife with which to clean the fish one of these times . . . Some say crazy, but I prefer to think that hope springs eternal.

+++

Speaking of insane, the reason that I didn't sleep enough yesterday was because I decided it would be good to watch a movie until 1:30 AM with a group of high schoolers. It was for the greater glory of God and the salvation of souls, of course.

Cranky

2010-07-21T21:08:00.000-07:00

As a child, the most dreadful part of my day was the nap. I recall very vividly the debates with my mother about naps, the insistence that I was not tired, and her vain attempts at reasoning with me. "Why do I have to take a nap?" "Because you will be crabby if you don't and I don't want to put up with you."

Sadly, the same thing is still true. If I don't sleep enough, I get crabby.

Which perhaps explains why I have been such a bear all day. Tomorrow will be better.

Steubenville North

2010-07-15T21:48:00.000-07:00

I will not be posting for a few days, as I will be accompanying a couple of busloads of kids from the Rapid City Diocese to the Steubenville North Conference in Rochester, Minnesota. It is a great time, and I spend literally hours in the confessional over the course of the weekend. I'm really looking forward to it right now. We'll see how I feel when I hear my alarm at 4:30 AM tomorrow. Until I return, enjoy the event's promotional video. If you watch closely you will see me in the video footage from last year. After the conference, I will be heading to my monthly Caritas meeting. I should have something more to say on Tuesday. Until then.

Exploring the 10th Commandment, NPR, and Manuel Noriega

2010-07-13T22:15:00.000-07:00

Given my political leanings, it comes as a surprise to most people that I listen to National Public Radio almost exclusively whenever I find myself alone in my car for more than twenty minutes at a time. In a media world, however, that seems more and more bereft of intelligent discourse, I find a great degree of stimulation in listening to programming that is largely commercial free, and that almost never uses the words, Nazi (except in reference to those who are self-professed Nazis), right-wing, loony, nut-job, or "those who hate America." Moreover, I find that there is often a great deal going on in the world when we are able to ignore yet another dead blond in Aruba for just a moment. As often as not, the commentators leave me hopping mad, but at least they have done so intelligently.

The entertainment offered by NPR is much better as well. While I could do without the majority of the "world music" pieces and eulogies to newly-dead and barely remembered pseudo-celebrities, I love "Prairie Home Companion," "This I Believe," "What Do you Know," and "This American Life." (As an aside, I find "Fresh Air" to consistently be the most deplorable, vapid, self-satisfied, banal, smug, inane drivel to ever cross the airwaves.)

In February or thereabouts, I was over at a neighbor's house when one of the local teens arrived flushed with the excitement of having recently acquired an iPod Touch. I am not a gadgety sort of fellow, and was little interested at first. The more I looked at it, though, the more attractive it became. It really is an eye-catching piece of electronics with unquestionable aesthetic quality. I marveled at the touch technology and asked some polite questions, pretending I was interested. What really piqued my interested, though, was the revelation that this little device (which I believe to be controlled by very tiny gremlins within) could be synchronized with my office computer's Outlook Calendar. I had been searching for a device able to do this for a long time, and had reached the point of despair, believing that I was going to have to buy a smart phone with a data plan for which I would have to grudgingly pay. For the rest of our brief interview, I coveted his iPod. Upon returning to my own home, I immediately called my tech savvy friend in Denver and then promptly placed an order for my own iPod Touch to be collected at Best Buy the next morning. Happy Lent to me. Huzzah for instant gratification.

Though I am not a pro, I did manage to sync my calendar and to subscribe to several podcasts, most of which originate from NPR programming. For the most part, these have been accumulating on my iPod waiting for me to have the time to listen to them. A recent trip to Radio Shack and the acquisition of a small FM transmitter has allowed me to play these podcasts in my car while driving (thus saving me from the torturous possibility of enduring the utterly insufferable Terry Gross on yet another episode of "Fresh Air"). In the week or so since this purchase I have devoured Dave Barry's most recent book, several months worth of the "News From Lake Wobegone" and today, two episodes of "This American Life." And so we finally get around to the point of this entry.

The second episode (I don't recall the air date) featured the story of a woman, who when eleven years old, became pen-pals with drug smuggler, murderer, and despot Manuel Noriega. Through her letter writing she was eventually invited to become his guest in Panama for about a week. The story focused on the fact that while Noriega perpetrated a variety of grave evils, to one little girl, he was a very normal man, living with his wife and children. Through him, she had come to experience the goodness of Panama and the goodness of Panamanians. Near the end of her visit, she received a letter from Noriega which he asked her to share with Americans upon her return to the States. It is a beautiful and deeply moving letter that reminds us that even one who has done monstrous things remains a man. He comments about his desire for peace in his own nation and to provide for the poor, homeless, and uneducated therein. One cannot help but appreciate these desires, however misguided he may have been in his attempt to implement them. I was moved by his eloquence; near the end of the letter he writes, "Peace is from God and therefore it is welcome to whichever part of the world will have it."

Though not nearly so eloquent as he, I was reminded of something I wrote several summers ago as the state of South Dakota debated the execution of admitted murdered Elijah Page:

There is no such thing as an evil person. There is no evil gene. There are good people who make bad decisions. There are good people, who by means of many bad decisions, become incapable of making good decisions. There are good people who, as a result of circumstances, believe that they have no choice but to make a bad decision. There are good people who intentionally make bad decisions to make us think a particular way about them. There are good people who are zealots for a cause, and for that reason, are willing to sacrifice any principle for it. There are good people, who, because of their own behaviors, place themselves in situations where they haven’t the mental or emotional capacity to make good decisions. There are good people who are often overwhelmed with passions and make decisions based on emotion as opposed to reason. But there is no such thing as an evil person.

"I Hear You Cluckin', Big Chicken"

2010-07-11T14:59:00.000-07:00

People who make their living on stage or in public speaking will often say that they feed off of the energy of the audience. While would not go so far as to say the experiences are the same for a priest, there are times when it is clear to me that the people are "plugged in"; they have truly united themselves in their own sacrifice of praise to the sacrifice I offer at the altar. Rather than feeling as though I am dragging the congregation along with me, it become apparent that they are holding their own right at my side. These are incredible, powerful moments when it is almost as though there is an electric tingle in the air. One of my professors often remarked that in the Mass, it is as though the space between heaven and earth has been pinched together so that whatever separates them is very thin. In these moments I am trying to describe, that space is even thinner than usual. In these moments, I am filled with deep satisfaction as I recognize that today they really get what is going on here. They give more, and I find myself giving more. God is working on the hearts of his people and on the heart of this priest. They are rare, these moments, and precious. One can only respond, inadequately, "Thank you."

How Not to Grow Basil

2010-07-10T12:14:00.000-07:00

It all started last summer when I discovered that Fr. Steve is an exceptional cook and that all of his best recipes include basil. Unfortunately, basis can be on the expensive side at the grocery store. While a number of parishioners grow basil by the acre, and are usually inclined to share it with the priests, none of us wants to create a Peter Rabbit/Farmer McGregor sort of scenario as we wander about their gardens under the cover of darkness (which is usually when we get around to eating supper on weekends). I decided then that we should probably have a garden of our own. Sadly, we live in a rectory surrounded by concrete and with little lawn to spare. It became clear that a garden would have to be installed at the home of someone else. Susan Safford, uninterested in maintaining a lawn or flowerbeds volunteered her backyard. I eagerly accepted the offer. Besides the obvious benefits of having a garden, this little project would afford me an opportunity to spend time with the local boys who find it easier to talk while doing something. It's a guy thing . . .

With the help of the broad shoulders and more limber back of a local teen-aged boy, we used shovels to till the soil of an until recently untamed weed bed, discarding as many of the ornamental rocks as possible. We eliminated the larger clumps of sod, pulled the nettles, and discarded the body of a deceased rose bush. We raked the garden down and leveled it (more or less), and left it for the evening. The following day, I returned with two teenagers in tow to plant radishes, carrots, tomatoes, cucumbers, peas, and basil. A couple of weeks later, we were able to see the beginnings of the fruit of our labors. The carrots were sprouting along with the radishes. The cucumbers looked great, and I smiled at the peas in their crooked row. I had never seen happier tomatoes. The only thing to elude me was the basil. Having never grown it before, I wasn't sure what it looked like, but I knew where we had laid the three rows of seeds, so I wasn't concerned. It would become obvious eventually.

Now, after six weeks, I have tasted every weed in the garden hoping to find one that proves to be basil. Nothing. As far as I can tell, not a single seed germinated. I don't know why. Perhaps it was too cool or perhaps I over watered it. Perhaps I mistakenly plucked it thinking it to be weeds. Whatever the case may be, there is nothing that tastes even vaguely of basil in that garden. While everything else is thriving, the one plant I had hoped to grow in abundance has eluded me. This means no free pesto, nor any of the other lovely basil recipes I had hoped to enjoy as the basil harvest came in.

There are a variety of spiritual lessons to be drawn from this experience. I can't control everything. I need to let God be in charge, etc, etc, etc. The true cynic in me, however, cannot help but remember all the times I have been met with disappointment in the past year when people have assured me, "Remember, you are planting seeds." I hope they grow better than the basil.

Addendum:

If at first you don't succeed, you can always cheat. Walmart, with whom I typically try to avoid doing business, still has a vast array of plant sets. The nice thing about these is that someone else has already done the work of making the seeds germinate and grow into pleasant little plants. As a result, I now have eight basil plants and three cilantro plants living at peace next to the tomatoes. I am wet to the bone from planting in the rain (I hadn't the patience to wait until dryer weather), but my visions of pesto may still come to pass.

In keeping with my cynical speculation about seeds yesterday, I offer the following spiritual lesson. When it is too hard to make the seeds of conversion grow, one should give up and concern oneself with those people in whom these seeds have already germinated into a healthy little plant.