I must confess that I have little
energy for discussing things that are political a little over a week after the
election. Except to note that stupid
things are still being said, just not hammered into our brains, 30-second spot
after 30-second spot.
One of the blessings of Face Book
(if blessing is the right word!) is that I have been able to reconnect with a
number of young people whom I baptized or led to their First Communion. Except they’re not young anymore! Some have children as old as they were when I
first met them. Some are having more
difficult lives than others.
Being a pastor has many benefits,
including being invited into people’s deepest joys and sorrows, and given the
right to speak to them. I did a funeral
yesterday for a man who had died at age 75. I did a house blessing and ate some
homemade fish tacos at a parishioner’s house.
I talked with a young person who is having real struggles. I talked with a young father who is excited about
what the future will bring to him and his family.
There are other benefits. But a benefit I don’t have is certainty. I don’t know if I’ve made a difference in a
person’s life or not. It’s very hard to
measure change. Sometimes with
hindsight, I can see it. But at the
moment—whether in hope or sorrow, or just in life—I have to go on hope that
there is a blessing in what I do.
I was working on a poem today about
a young woman from our church in Philly, who committed suicide at age 19 with
her baby and boyfriend sleeping in the next room. She had done her First Communion when she was
around 11, and seemed to really have a chance at a good life, despite what she
had experienced (a dad doing life in prison, a mother who was abused by a
number of boyfriends). The last time I
saw her, we talked about baptizing her baby.
We never got to that.
The poem isn’t finished, but the
title is, I think. It’s simply: “I
Couldn’t”.
I couldn’t …
pull the gun
from your hands
I couldn’t …
remember you to yourself
I couldn’t …
convince you the
voice
that spoke so
softly inside
was a homicide
in the shape
of a horseshoe,
that the luckier
your life got,
the harder
it became for
you
to believe
in you
And so on, what I couldn’t do. I know many of us have experienced that
powerlessness and wondered what to do with it.
What I would like most of all right
now, as I say to her in the poem, “sit with you” for awhile. Sit with you alive. Sit with you here.
My faith in a God of mercy and justice
leads me out of that powerlessness, but often that walk is very slow, and very
painful. That is when I like to remember
what a community of loving people is.
Among other things, a place to celebrate.
If you’ve never been to a First
Communion with people from Mexico, let me know and I will invite you to the
next one! It is quite a celebration, a
joy to all the senses. This is an
excerpt from the poem “First Communion for the Children of the Undocumented”
(found on my MNartists page at: http://www.mnartists.org/search.do?action=list#RefineWork).
Even with the terrible uncertainty of their lives, there is such a hope.
Kneeling at the
altar,
with their
padrinos’ hands
resting on their
shoulders
like seraphim
about to strike,
they seem a bit
out of place, brilliant
in white suits
and dresses, veils
and rosaries and
bibles, these children
with this bit of
God in their hands.
Seraphim are both wild
angels and winged serpents—think about that image!
I
don’t know how people write every day on their blogs. I’m happy I got to this
one during a challenging week.
Be
beauty. Be justice.
Patrick
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