Honey or Vinegar?

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

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

It seems to me that every man worth his salt desires to have a son.  This longing is hardwired into him from his creation.  Some might argue that this hope for a son, aside from man’s basest animal desires, arises from his fear of death; in a son he can be assured that some part of him will live on in his heirs – they will carry his name.  Certainly we are proud by nature, and some portion of our vanity is fed with the arrival of a son, but in the end, such an explanation seems incomplete.  A man can create a lasting legacy by other means.  This was, after all, 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 sufficient evidence that their presumptions were true.  For what purpose, then, does it rest so heavily upon a man’s heart to produce a son?

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

A priest carries none of the burden of providing for and raising a family with his wife.  The longings of his heart, however, are much like those of any good man.  He hopes for a son.  Thus, every man preparing for priesthood experiences acutely the awareness that he will have no progeny of his own.  If he is observant, however, he quickly discovers that God seldom takes without giving something in return.  Thus have I come to see that while I will have no son of my own stock, Our Lord has given me a great many spiritual sons.   I am privileged to say that you are among them, and it is important for you to know that I could not be prouder of you.

As a father of sorts, my hopes for you are much like the hopes of your natural father.   I hope that you will be more successful than I 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 be admired. I hope that when you reach the end of your days you will have lived a life worth remembering. More than all else, though, I hope you will know with deep intimacy Him who has loved us into existence, and that you will be holy, so much holier than I.  I want you to be a better man than I am.  I have prayed that this would be so for a long time now, and I will continue to do so.  Already I am beginning to see that God has looked kindly upon this request.  Within you rests the capacity to be not only a good man, but a great man.  Only one thing will prevent Our Lord from accomplishing this work within you.  Do not permit your own self to serve as the obstacle that tempts you to substitute mediocrity for glory.

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

As I am not your natural father, I recognize that it does not belong to me to see you through each of the steps toward becoming a man. Because of the sacrifices he makes 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, I have borne witness to a less visible though equally profound and meaningful period of maturation in your life. As a result, I hope you and your dad will not 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 a beard.  Nevertheless, there remains something iconic about a razor. To possess a razor of ones own marks a point of transition out of boyhood and into the true nobility that characterizes authentic 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 a great 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 daily who you are and who you are meant to be.  Holiness, after all, is to be achieved in the way that we do the little things.  At the very least may this gift be a reminder of my unwavering confidence in your goodness and your capacity for greatness.

With much love and affection I remain,

You Father in Christ,

Fr. Tyler Dennis

Merry Christmas 2011

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

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

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?

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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.