Prayers

Today is a tragic day.  Another school shooting.  More children murdered.  Teachers murdered.  The mother of the shooter murdered.  Why?

Why?  Why?  Why?  Why would someone be so evil as to do something so violent that affects, not only the small school community, but affects everyone of us who treasures life?  What happened in the shooter’s young life to make him do something so violent?  Was he abused?  Was he bullied?  Did he and his mother have an argument?  Did they have a volatile relationship?  Was he mentally ill — maybe schizophrenic or bipolar or depressed or any of a number of other mental illnesses?

Did you hug your children, your grandchildren, your children’s friends, your nieces, nephews, cousins, parents, grandparents, and neighbors extra tight today?  I did.  My 30 year-old nephew lives with me while he completes his college degree.  When he came home this afternoon, I hugged him — extra tight.  I am so very saddened by the tragedy of today, as I know anyone who is reading this is.

As a priest, I am frequently asked the difficult questions that arise during tragic events such as the school shootings in Connecticut, or Virginia, or Colorado, or the mall shootings in Oregon, or Utah, or the church shootings in — name your state.  Why?  Why, if God is so loving and omnipotent and omnipresent and omniscient,  does He permit such tragedy to occur?  I do not have the answers.  All I can do is offer comfort, compassion, and prayer.  I can hold a hand, put my arm around a shoulder, give a hug, shed a tear.  I can pray that the people affected will feel God’s presence and know that He loves them.  Too often, people affected by tragedy become angry with God.   Some people, sadly, become so angry with God they no longer believe in Him.

God loves each and every one of us infinitely more than we can imagine.  God is love.  1 John 4:8 states, “Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love.”  As with any good parent, He allows His children to make mistakes, to make errors in judgement.  Unfortunately, some of His children make such horrendous mistakes as to affect an entire community, an entire country, the entire world.  What I try to do, what I try to express to those who are suffering, what I pray we can all do, is find some good in each tragedy that touches our hearts.

• When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, “Look for the helpers.  You will always find people who are helping.”  To this day, especially in times of disaster, I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers — so many caring people in this world.  ~~ Mr. Fred Rogers

I was educated in Catholic schools — from kindergarten through post-graduate school.  Prayer was one staple element of the curriculum.  One of my dear friends, who was educated in public schools, remembers saying a prayer before being served cookies and milk in kindergarten.  “God is great, God is good, Thank you God for this good food.”  A simple prayer of blessing for the food — in a public school.  A question to ask ourselves is, “Why is God no longer allowed in the schools?”  Why have the atheists won?  The above prayer is not just Christian, it is not just Jewish, it is not just Muslim — it is universal.  The majority of people in this world believe in some sort of higher power.  Why does the minority have more power than the majority?

• Dear God, Why do you allow so much violence in our schools? ~ Signed, A Concerned Student.
• Dear Concerned Student,  I’m not allowed in schools. ~ Love, God.

It is something to ponder.  It is something to pray about.  Depending on how saddened your heart is today, maybe it is time to do something.  If each and every one of us who believes in a higher power — God — were to write a letter to our legislators, could it be possible that God would be allowed into our public schools?  Would having God in the school have prevented today’s horrendous murders?  Maybe.  But, we will never know, will we?

As a Jesuit, I pray the Breviary each day; I pray the Psalms.  Please pick up your Bible and open it to the Book of Psalms.  Read through them to find comfort during this time of national grieving.

• Psalms 23:  The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.  He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the still waters.  He restoreth my soul;  He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.  Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me, Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me.  Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; Thou anointest my head with oil, my cup runneth over.  Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever (KJV).
• Psalms 46: 1-2:  God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.  Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change, though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea . . .  (NRSV).

God bless the souls of the precious children and adults who were murdered in Connecticut.  God bless all the families affected by this horrendous tragedy.  God bless our nation as we, once again, grieve together.  God bless each and every one of us.

Theologian or Scholar?

Do I consider myself a Catholic theologian or a scholar of ancient Christianity?  It depends on the day and the circumstance.  As a priest, I tread carefully on subjects that could be deemed controversial.  As a professor of Religious Studies, a scholar of ancient Christianity, I expect  my students to ask the difficult questions.

Church of the Nativity, Bethlehem, Palestine

During this time of year, I have students ask why Christian churches continue to perpetuate the myths we have been taught for centuries when, in fact, many of those stories are just that — myths.  Was Jesus actually born in Bethlehem?  If so, which Bethlehem?  How many are aware there were two “little towns of Bethlehem?”  The Bethlehem we know and love as the birthplace of Jesus was in Biblical Judah, in present-day Palestine.  Jesus was called Jesus of Nazareth during his ministry.  Nazareth is in the Galilee, in Biblical Israel — the northern kingdom.  About six miles northwest of Nazareth was the tiny burg of Bethlehem, which is mentioned in the Book of Joshua 19:15.  Is it possible Jesus was born in this other Bethlehem?  Is it possible he was actually born in Nazareth?  Is it possible the writers of the Bible declared Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judah in order to fulfill prophesy?  The answers to all these questions is, yes, it is possible.  As a faithful Catholic, I believe Jesus was born in the Bethlehem of tradition.  As an ancient Christianity scholar, I do not know.  I guide my students to the resources available and I ask that they come to their own conclusions.  Does it really matter where Jesus was born?  No.

The other question that arises this time of year is whether or not Jesus was born on December 25.  Probably not.  There is debate about when he was actually born — could he have been born in the Spring?  Rather than write in detail all the arguments, I ask that you read this article from Bible History Daily.  Again, does it matter when Jesus was born?  No.

My faith is profound — my faith in God, my faith in Jesus as my Savior, my faith in my Church and its traditions.  I knew at a very young age where God was leading me.  I have studied religion from a theological perspective and I have studied religion from a historical perspective.  At times, the two conflict.  It is at those times I must decide which hat I am wearing.  There have been times when the historical evidence, to me, was more persuasive than the theological traditions.  For some Biblical scholars, the conflict steers them away from their religious convictions toward agnosticism.  For me, those conflicts have deepened my faith.

During this Advent season, what is important to remember is why we believe in Jesus as our Savior, why He became the Messiah, why He is the Christ.  It does not matter where He was born, it does not matter when He was born.  What matters is that He was born and that He died on the cross to save the world.

“O Little Town of Bethlehem . . .
Yet in thy dark streets shineth The everlasting Light.”

The Light that shines to save the world.

The Feast of the Immaculate Conception

I love Advent — it seems as if almost every day there is another reason to pause, to ponder, to pray, to remember why we celebrate Christmas.  I do believe in Santa Claus but, without the birth of Jesus and St. Nicholas, a devout Christian who believed in the divinity of Jesus, we would have no Santa Claus.  And, without the Immaculate Conception of Mary or the miraculous virgin birth of the Christ child, we would have no Christmas nor the time of preparation called Advent.  Although a busy time of year — with both my church duties and my academic duties — I set aside additional time each day and each night to pray, to feel the presence of my Savior.

December 8th has long marked The Feast of the Immaculate Conception, commemorated by Roman Catholics, and some Eastern, Anglican, and Protestant rites, as the day Mary was conceived by her mother, Anne.  Contrary to common belief, the Immaculate Conception pertains to Mary being free from original sin; it does not relate to Jesus’ conception which is commemorated on March 25th with the Feast of the Annunciation.  Mary was pure — always free of sin.

We do not know very much about Mary’s life from a historical or a theological perspective.  Scripture says very little about her, and nothing about her childhood.  The Gospels of Matthew and Luke are the only gospels to mention the birth of Jesus; Luke mentions Gabriel’s visit to Mary bringing her the news of her impending pregnancy and her visit to her cousin, Elizabeth.  As for Mary’s conception and birth narrative, The Infancy Gospel of James, written about 145 CE, is the earliest documentation of Mary’s birth, naming her parents as Joachim and Anna.  

For Catholics, The Feast of the Immaculate Conception is a Holy Day of Obligation which means we are required to attend Mass and to avoid, as much as possible, servile work.  In my family, we would attend Mass in the morning on our way to school or work.  At the end of the day, we would gather around the Advent Wreath and pray the Magnificat ~~ Luke 1:46-55 ~~ along with the Benedictus ~~ Luke 1:67-80.  This day is considered to be the most holy during Advent.  Our family traditions and our Catholic traditions run deep on this holy day.  And, in between school and our evening prayers?  My mom usually had some activity that was age-related to help us know and honor the Blessed Virgin Mary.  

I am sure, as children, all this religiosity seemed like a bunch of mumbo jumbo.  Wouldn’t most kids rather be outside playing in the snow or rain or sunshine or whatever the weather gods might have sent?  Making snowmen, if there was snow, stomping in the puddles on rainy days, climbing trees on sunny days, playing football in the middle of the street — anything to keep from being cooped up indoors PRAYING.  My mom was one of the kindest, gentlest, most spiritual people I have been blessed to know — she also had a lot of spunk.  She insisted on a strict Catholic upbringing, observing all Holy Days, but after all the religious mumbo jumbo, she would be outside tossing that football with us.  And, all that PRAYING must have worked to her benefit — Irish-Catholic mom that she was, her dream of a son entering the priesthood was fulfilled.  Also, one of her grandsons — she did not live to see him ordained but she knew he was headed down the same spiritual path as his uncle.  

Today, as we remember the very Blessed Virgin Mother Mary during this Advent season, my prayer is  that we all remember, not only Mary and her Son, but we also remember our own mothers and all that they have given us.  Life.  Love.  Home.  Family.  And, if all are as blessed as I have been — a deeply spiritual upbringing that has carried over into adulthood.  I give thanks — to the Mary for being the model for all mothers, and to my mother, Mary, who loved me unconditionally and guided me down an incredible spiritual path to knowing the Mary’s Son as my Savior.  Thank you, Mom.  Thank you, Mary.  Thank you, Jesus.

Thanksgiving Musings

I am a writer — most of what I write is for academic journals of which only a few people in my field read.  To maintain tenure at the university at which I teach, I must be published.  Over the years, I have been encouraged by colleagues, friends, and family to write a book.  Because I do not believe I would have anything new to contribute in my field of expertise, I remain hesitant to add one more book that would say much the same as all the other books on the market.  I am testing the waters, not so much with my academic knowledge, but with my writing skills — to learn if anyone is interested in reading what I write.  And, so, I have titled my blog, “Musings”, as I will write about nothing in particular.

Thanksgiving Musings — my family has always put great emphasis on this All American holiday.  We have so much to be thankful for and, although mostly mythological, there is some historical accuracy to the first Thanksgiving.  Each year we would share stories, sometimes debate those stories, of what might have actually happened, why it happened, and what the significance of sharing a meal with those who “are not like us” means.  The first Thanksgiving was celebrated with the natives of our great land, and the first immigrants.

We are all immigrants, or the descendants of immigrants.  My parents were born in Ireland and immigrated to the United States as young children, along with their parents and some of their older siblings.  Unlike many, if not most, immigrants of their era, my grandparents were adamant that their children and, subsequently, their grandchildren not lose their native tongue.  We are all fluent in Irish, as are many, to a lesser extent, of my nieces and nephews.  With each passing generation, the language is becoming lost to our family.

As we shared our reasons for being thankful this past week, it became evident that each generation is thankful for different things.  I am thankful for the importance of God in my life; I am thankful for my Church and the community that it offers; I am thankful for my family who are my support and who love me unconditionally; I am thankful for my immigrant grandparents who insisted that their children and grandchildren be bilingual which, in turn, enabled me to more easily learn more languages; I am thankful for the freedoms we have as Americans, that have been hard fought by generations of soldiers; I am thankful for the life God has led me to lead — to serve my Lord, to attain an extensive education, to have the opportunity to share my knowledge with the incredibly awesome intellectual minds of my students.  I am thankful.

As I reflect on all that I am thankful for, much of which pertains to my being an American, I cannot help but wonder how our Native people feel about their past, their history, their land being, essentially, stolen out from under them by the white man who thought he was superior.  I am Irish by blood.  My heritage is not much different from the Native’s.  Our land was stolen by the British.  My ancestors were forced to learn English, to make it their native tongue, to lose their Irish heritage.  My ancestors were made to be tenets on their own land, they were starved during the potato famine, they were not afforded quality health care when they became ill due to horrendous living conditions, they were “slaves” in their own homeland — oppressed by the British.  Our Natives have been oppressed by their conquerors.  After their land was stolen, they were forced to learn English, the children were sent to boarding schools to be taught to assimilate to the American way of life, they were forced to become Christian and to leave their native religious rituals behind — they were oppressed by the white man.  The white man who was, most likely, British.  Hmm . . . Do you see a trend?

And, in the beginning, they shared their farming knowledge with their future conquerors, they shared a meal in celebration of that first harvest, they were kind to the immigrants.  The Natives did not ship those first immigrants home, those immigrants who would eventually ship the Natives to reservations.  Several of the students I have taught over the past 30 years have been immigrants — most from countries in Central and South America.  Many of those students were brought to the United States when they were young children.  By the time I have them in my classroom, they have lived in the US longer than they lived in their native lands.  They consider themselves to be American.  The caveat is that many are undocumented.  Because of that little glitch in their “right” to be in this country, many of our citizens believe these children, and their parents, should be shipped back to their native countries.  Do we, as a nation, never learn?  Must we continue to be the conqueror?  Must we continue to be the oppressor?  I learn as much from my students as I hope I teach them.  Their thirst for knowledge, their intellect, their hope for a better future than their parents could attain, the richness of their different cultures — all creates beautiful human beings that offer so much to our “melting pot” society.

My prayer is for a country that is no longer polarized, a country where we are ALL treated with equality, a country where our immigrants are welcomed and their skills are utilized in a friendly atmosphere, a country where we all love one another as God loves each and every one of us.