Hooked

A lot of people ask me what my calling to the diaconate was like.  Well, it went something like this: 

          God: Michael

          Me: Huh?

          God: Michael!

          Me: Who’s there?

          God: MICHAEL!

          Me: WHAT!

          God: It’s me, God.

          Me: Riiight.

          God: I want you to become a deacon.

          Me: Riiight. What’s a deacon?

          God: A deacon is an ordained minister of the Church who exercises the three munera of word, liturgy and charity.

          Me: What’s a munera?

          God: Munera is the plural form of the word munus, which means . . . . Oh, never mind. Deacons are the servants of the Church who teach, assist at liturgy and perform charitable works.

          Me: You want me to be a servant?

          God: Yes.

          Me:  Riiight.[1]

OK, my call to the diaconate wasn't anything like that at all.  I wish it had been; it would've been a lot easier to figure out.  But once I did figure it out, I knew it was right.  I was hooked.

          I attended a men’s retreat this past weekend where the theme was “Fishers of Men,” referring to the calling of the Apostles in the Gospel reading from Mass this morning.  So I've been doing a lot of thinking over the past few days about my call to the diaconate.  What was it like?  How did I know?  Well, I never heard a voice from heaven calling my name; I wasn't struck blind and interrogated by the Lord; I wasn't even visited by an angel in my sleep.  It was very subtle and it happened over a long period of time.  It was a silent nudge.  It was gradual awareness.  It was a growing conviction.

          The silent nudge – As I reached my mid-thirties, I began to experience a growing sense that I needed to give something back.  I felt that I had to do something positive with my abilities as pay back for the many blessings I had received.  Up to that point, I expected that I would enter public service.  I’d prepared for it for much of my college, graduate school and early professional career.  I loved politics.  There had been no question since my high school years of how I would give back.  But after I was married and had two children, I slowly came to realize that I wasn't really cut out for politics.  I was too thin-skinned; I avoided confrontation.  My shortcomings blew in my face like a cold north wind forcing me to take a different tack.  This was a painful discovery for me.  I felt lost.  I no longer had plan, but that nudge was still there, and it was getting stronger and stronger.

 

          Gradual awareness – Around the same time, we moved from Northern Virginia to New Jersey.  Although I knew basically what deacons were, and I even knew one deacon – a friend’s uncle, I had never been in a parish that had a deacon.  I never saw a deacon in action on a regular basis.  My new parish, though, had one deacon, and I slowly began to see, through his wonderful example, what the ministry of deacon was all about.  I cast my net wide for information about deacons.  I searched the internet.  I read books about deacons.  I began to ask questions.  I gradually became aware, over a period of about two years, that the same abilities that I thought were leading me into politics, might serve well in diaconal ministry.

          Growing conviction – As my interest in the diaconate grew, I started talking about it with my wife, my family and friends and colleagues at work.  Most didn't know what a deacon was (the conversations were a lot like the fictional conversation between me and God, above).  But after I explained what deacons do, everyone, without exception, told me that I’d make a great deacon.  [NB:  I just got choked up as I wrote that last sentence.]  The support was incredible.  It was powerful.  I’m absolutely convinced that the Holy Spirit was speaking to me through all of these people.  But I still questioned this calling all the time, even during formation.  Diaconal training takes a lot of time (five years from start to finish); it involves interviews, psychological testing (yes, I passed), background checks, classes, homework, papers, exams and a lot of Church bureaucracy.  I’m often asked, “How did you know that you were called to be a Deacon?”  The answer is that I didn't really know until the Bishop laid his hands on my head at ordination, but whenever I questioned the calling, the answer always came back “yes.”

 

          We’re all called by God to be “Fishers of Men,” to spread the Good News of a God who loves us unconditionally and more than we can ever imagine.  There are countless ways to fulfill this calling, and it’s up to each of us to decide which way or ways are best for us.  God didn't make me be a deacon, and he wouldn't have been upset if I had chosen not to follow that particular calling.  God gives us the gift of free will, so he gives us choices, all of them good.  It’s up to us to choose.  Finding what’s right for us may take time, and it may be difficult.  But I can assure you from my own experience that when you find your calling, you’ll know it’s right.  You’ll dive right into it.  You’ll be hooked.

---

[1] A tip of the hat to Bill Cosby’s Conversation Between God and Noah, found here on YouTube.

Two Sides to Every Story

I’m not much of a sports fan (OK, I’m not a sports fan at all), so I confess that when I woke to the news of Richard Sherman’s purportedly unsportsmanlike conduct after the Seattle-San Francisco game last night, I had no idea who Richard Sherman was.  [My college roommate, a die-hard sports fan, is cringing right now].  I also admit that I really wasn't interested in finding out until I was greeted with a slew of Facebook postings denouncing Sherman’s comments and pledging support for the Broncos in the Super Bowl because of those comments.  Now the story seemed more interesting to me.  So I went to the videotape to see for myself what happened.  Well, Sherman’s unfortunate rant against Michael Crabtree (I didn't know who he was either) was pretty clear.  Then I saw a replay of the last play of the game.  Did I just see Richard Sherman extend a handshake to Michael Crabtree?  Did Michael Crabtree just grab Sherman’s helmet (with Sherman’s head still in it) and shove him away?  Did I just unfairly judge Richard Sherman?  It seems like there may be two sides to this story.

There always are.  One of the first things we learned in law school was that there are two sides to every story, and the truth lies somewhere in between.  That’s why lawyers ask lots of questions.  That’s why parents do too.  You learn pretty quickly as a parent that when one child comes to complain about a sibling’s offenses against God and man, the complainant typically has no right to cast the first stone.  So I avoid taking sides in squabbles that don’t involve me.  When friends have a disagreement, I try to just listen to what they have to say and tell them that I am Switzerland.  When my daughters are at each other’s throats (figuratively), I try to let them work it out unless it becomes “literally.”

 

This approach really ticks people off.  I've been told that I’m not supportive; I've been called disloyal; and I've heard that my failure to side with one combatant weakened his argument against the other.  Go figure.  But none of these comments bother me much because I see them for what they really are:  attempts to guilt me into taking sides.  I've used them myself for that very reason.  We all want justice; we all want vindication; we all want the world to acknowledge that we’re right and the other is wrong.  But the truth of the matter is, there are two sides to every story, and accepting that fact isn't easy.  Accepting that there are two sides to every story means that we occasionally might have to admit that we’re in the wrong (even if only a little bit); we might have to acknowledge that the one who wronged us deserves our mercy (heaven forfend!); and we might see justice meted out in ways that aren't wholly satisfying to us.

 

Justice means giving a person his due.  So justice will rarely be served by a categorical determination of who’s right and who’s wrong.  Justice is bigger than that.  Would Richard Sherman’s post-game rant merit unreserved condemnation if it were preceded by a helmet shove by Michael Crabtree?  A helmet shove doesn't justify Sherman’s on-air invective, and it doesn't free Sherman’s behavior from judgment and possible punishment.  But it does put Sherman’s comments in context, and it does suggest that Sherman is not the only one in the wrong.  It even suggests that Sherman might be due a little mercy.  It seems like there’s been some spat between Sherman and Crabtree for some time.  To be honest, it doesn't interest me enough to look into it any further.  But I can’t deny that I rushed to judgment against Richard Sherman when I first saw the videotape, and that was wrong.  If I’m going to judge, I need to make sure that justice is served – that every person is given his due.  So before I judge, I have to remember that there are two sides to every story.

Who Am I?

          Victor Hugo’s Jean Valjean faced a moral dilemma.[1]  He’d been a fugitive from justice for eight years when he learned that another man named Champmathieu had been mistakenly identified as him.  Champmathieu was Valjean’s ticket to freedom.  If he were, in fact, judged to be Jean Valjean, Champmathieu would serve the rest of his life in prison, and Valjean would no longer live in fear being captured.  Valjean wrestled with what to do.  Should he turn himself in, lose everything he had and spend the rest of his life in jail, or should he remain silent and let an innocent man go to judgment in his place?  His choice would turn upon who Valjean really was.  So he asked himself, “Who am I?  Many of us, no doubt, have asked ourselves the same question in difficult times.  Returning to our baptism is a great way to find the answer.

          Today we mark the end of the Christmas season with the Solemnity of the Baptism of the Lord – when Jesus was made manifest to us as God’s beloved Son.  In our first reading, Isaiah prophesizes that God will send his servant who will “bring forth justice to the nations.”  And Saint Peter confirms in our second reading that this is exactly what Jesus did after his baptism.  “He went about doing good.”  So Jesus’ baptism, then, is “a manifestation of Jesus’ true identity as God’s Son and God’s faithful servant who  . . . will move inexorably toward his destiny” of doing good.”[2]  That’s what our Baptism is too.

          In our Baptism, we identify ourselves with Christ and his mission.  Just this past Wednesday, Pope Francis spoke about Baptism in his weekly catechesis.  He said that Baptism is the Sacrament that grafts us to Christ and his Church as living members . . . .  [It] aligns us with the Lord and makes us into a living sign of his presence and love.”[3]  And while I’m quoting Popes, I’ll add that Pope Benedict XVI taught that Baptism “is meant to be the concrete enactment of a conversion that gives the whole of life a new direction forever.”  So Baptism isn't just a ritualized pool party; it’s not just an occasion to declare that Jesus is our Savior.  Baptism touches the depth of our very being.  It changes us.  It identifies us with Christ and his mission forever.  It defines who we are.

Now any good moral theologian will tell you, perhaps at a cocktail party, that “who we are” directly affects “what we do,” and “what we do” affects “who we are.”  Well then, as Christians, we should “see ourselves as God’s anointed servants, filled with the Holy Spirit and equipped with every good gift in order to do God’s work.”[4]  In other words, through Christian baptism, we identify ourselves with doing good.  But we all know that there are some pretty bad Christians out there and sometimes they’re us.  Well, that’s because we still have free will.  Conforming our behavior to our Christian identity is a choice.  We’re faced with good and bad choices every day, and our choices say a lot about who we are – whether we’re true Christians, or Christians in name only.

 

These choices aren't always black or white either.  There’s a lot of grey out there, so it can be hard to discern between right and wrong.  Valjean had become a wealthy man, and he used that wealth to do good, sharing his prosperity with the poor.  If he turned himself in, he’d set one man free, but would abandon many others to poverty.  Facing tough choices like these, can be pretty miserable.  That’s when we need to remember our Baptism.  We need to remember that in Baptism we were claimed by Christ our Savior by the sign of his cross; we were strengthened with the oil of salvation; we received the gift of new life by water and the Holy Spirit; and we became children of the light.  In Baptism, we became identified with the Light of the World.  And in his light, we see who we really are - beloved children of God and God’s faithful servants.  In his light and with the help of his grace, we’ll choose to be a living sign of Christ’s presence and love; we’ll choose to be a light to those who live in darkness; we’ll choose to do good.  The choices we face won’t always be easy, but if we return to our baptism, we’ll “remember whose we are and how we conduct ourselves so that our true identity as believers inspires and directs all we are and all we do.”[5]

          That’s what happened with Jean Valjean.  He remembered who he was.  For as much as he wanted to continue his wonderful new life, he knew that he had a higher calling.  For as much as others saw him as a criminal, he knew that he’d made the choice long ago to do good.  He identified himself with Christ, so he had to speak up; he had to free the innocent man even though it might cost him his own freedom.  Like Valjean, with every difficult choice we face, we need to ask ourselves, “Who am I?”  Then we need to return to our Baptism for the answer.

---

[1] Victor Hugo, “”The Champmathieu Affair,” Les Misérables, vol. I, Book VII (Norwalk, The Easton Press, 2004) at 211-291.

[2] Graziano Marcheschi and Nancy Seitz Marcheschi, Workbook for Lectors, Gospel Readers, and Proclaimers of the Word, 2014, Year A (Chicago, Liturgy Training Publications, 2013) at 49.

[3] Pope Francis, First General Audience of 2014, Vatican City, January 8, 2014.

[4] Patricia Datchuck Sánchez, “Remembering Whose We Are,” National Catholic Reporter, vol. 50, no. 5 (December 20, 2013-January 2, 2014) at 32.

[5] Id.

A New Beginning

Everyone knows that January 1^st is New Year’s Day, but did you know that it’s also the Octave Day of the Nativity of the Lord:  The Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God?  That sure is a mouthful, but what does it all mean?  Well, following ancient tradition, we celebrate Christmas Day for eight days (we do the same for Easter).  While most people may be done with Christmas by the 26^th, the Church isn't.   Christmas Day is celebrated for eight days, and the season of Christmas doesn't end until the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord (January 12, this year).  These eight days of Christmas are known as the Octave of Christmas.  Why eight days?  Christians believe that Jesus rose from the dead on Easter Sunday.  That’s why we gather together every Sunday to celebrate the resurrection of the Lord.  While Sunday is, of course, the first day of the week, for Christians it’s also the spiritual eighth day of the week – a day that stands outside of time in eternity.  This eighth day represents the new creation of the world resulting from Christ’s resurrection from the dead.  The eighth day signifies a new beginning. 

How fitting, then, that on this day we also celebrate the Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God and the beginning of a New Year.  Through her “yes” to God, Mary gave God human form, allowing him to carry out his redemptive mission of reuniting us with the Father for all eternity.  That’s why we call Mary the “New Eve.”  Just as our mothers gave us life, Mary gives us new life.  She gives us a new beginning.

What a tremendous Christmas gift we’ve been given:  a second chance; a new beginning.  That’s sure worth celebrating for eight days!  And this gift is just sitting there waiting for whenever we’re ready to tear off the wrapping paper and open it up.  All we have to do is accept it.  We accept this gift by inviting the Christ child into our lives, by making some room in our inn so he can transform us with his grace.  And by the grace of God, we can do anything:  we can repair broken relationships and make good ones even better; we can free ourselves from the snares of our addictions and develop healthy, virtuous habits; we can even forgive the unforgivable and love the unlovable. 

          New Year’s Day is a time when many of us make resolutions for the coming year.  Maybe I’ll write the book I’ve been thinking about; maybe I’ll take drawing lessons; maybe I’ll train for a marathon (ok, that’s not happening).  All of these resolutions would be enjoyable for me in one way or another (except the marathon), but none would be as fulfilling and transformative as resolving to invite the Christ child into my life.  So I turn to Mary as a role model and inspiration to help me say “yes” to God, to help me welcome the Christ child into my life, just as she did on that first Christmas Day.  I turn to Mary to help me accept the wonderful gift of a new beginning.