Giving Thanks...

One of the most overwhelming privileges of being a priest is the number of times you are there at the moment of a person‘s death. The whole family is gathered around, listening for their loved one’s breathing to slow. It can takes minutes or hours or sometimes even days. It is a sacred and extraordinary time, standing there beside the bed, a privileged moment.

For me, one of the most remarkable experiences of the moment of death was with Martha and Peter more than 30 years ago. I had walked with Peter through an extraordinarily agonizing few years as Martha slowly succumbed to the ravages of Alzheimer’s. I remember visiting the house the first day she no longer recognized who he was, threatening to call the police, because this strange man was now making lunch for her in the kitchen. I remember when she was finally no longer able to speak, and would just sit and stare out the window and mumble at the Lake for hours on end. And I remember when poor Peter was no longer able to take care of Martha, and had to put her into a facility where they could provide 24 hour care. It broke his heart.

Most of all, I remember that night when Martha died. Peter had insistently called me and said he was sure she was about to die and could I come by and pray the prayers of commendation of the dying. I arrived late that night, pulled into the driveway, and the whole family was standing around the bed. Martha was slowly dying, her breaths more shallow and irregular by the minute. And in between each halting breath, she would mutter something unintelligible, much as she had been doing for the past six months. We didn’t pay much attention.

Until all of a sudden, with Peter standing over her, putting ice to her lips, and then slowly running his fingers through her hair, she grabbed his wrist Looked him right in the eye and said with unimaginable clarity, Peter, thank you. Then she closed her eyes and died.

It was the first time she had spoken something intelligible in years, and yet somehow, in that last moment, her love, and her gratitude pierced the fog of her disease, and touched the heart of the man who had stood by her for all those years.

Gratitude is, perhaps the deepest expression of love. The gratitude of the leper who came back to give thanks that he was cured, the gratitude of creatures, who, get on their knees and thank God that they were born.

But sadly, gratitude can seem so rare these days, even among good people like me and you. 

On the day I received my last postgraduate degree I practically sprained my wrist patting myself on the back. But did I think of Miss Lucasak who first taught me cursive in third grade, or Miss Morin who encouraged me to write those one page essays with the pictures two years later. Did I think of the Priest who first inspired me with a love for the Liturgy, or my parents who put me through College, or the inspiring professors I had come to know along the way. Did I think of the scholars who had constructed that world of knowledge in which I had gained some small degree of proficiency, or those who built the institutions which had led me through those mysteries. 

No, I thought of none of them, I never gave them a thought or a prayer. I never said thank-you. But like an ungrateful leper, I just got on with my life and I never looked back.

I was always struck by something which Fred Rogers (you remember Mr. Rogers?) would frequently do when giving a talk. H would stop and ask people to be quiet for a moment and think of someone who had made a big difference in their lives. Maybe the person was dead, maybe they had never even known what a big impact they had on your life. And maybe you never had a chance to say that to them.

Do that now. Stop just for a minute and, in the silence, think of someone who meant a lot to your life and thank God for them.

PAUSE.

Didn’t that feel good?

That’s why, in just a few minutes, I will say to you: Lift up your hearts. And you will respond: We lift them up to the Lord. 

And I will say: Let us give thanks to the Lord our God.

And you will reply: It is right and just.

Violence and the Presence of God

It’s been quite a year.

Sixty thousand dead in Gaza, and 20,000 of them were children. That’s 2% of the children who lives in Gaza City killed by guns and bombs in a single year.

And then there’s Ukraine. The number killed there is the last four years runs into the millions. Not to mention the accusations of war crimes and the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people by mass genocide in Nigeria and the Sudan.

But those numbers don’t mean a lot after awhile, for the horror of violence gets strangely diluted by statistics. A million her, a 100,000 there. What does it mean?

Somehow it really comes home, though, when you hear of a person pulling the trigger of a hand gun at Whitney field two weeks ago, shooting a teenage kid. Then it really comes home.

“Violence,” Habbakuk cries out. “Violence!" and you, O Lord, why don’t you stop it!?

 Why do you let me see ruin; why must I look at misery?  Destruction and violence are before me;  there is strife, and clamorous discord.

There is evil in this world. We see it in headlines. We see it in other people. And sometimes, we see it in ourselves.

But why does God allow it?

A Simplanswer. He allow us because he loves us. :oves us enough to give us a choice. A choice to lie or to hate.

For real love requires freedom. No one can force me to love. Love is the choice to let go the way of my own self interests or to lay down my life, to sacrifice my life for the other.

Loving is always a choice. And so is violence. 

The devil and his minions whisper incessantly into ears, just like they did for Eve and her husband. “God can’t save you. You’ll a sap if you think about other people. They’ll just take advantage of you. They’re a threat to you and to your happiness and even to your life. You need to take action!  Protect yourself!  Kill them before they can kill you!

It happens in the school yard in fifth grade, and in High School when the rival gets the girl, or at the office when she gets the job I should have gotten or at Thanksgiving, when that embodiment of selfishness needs to be cut off and made to suffer!

“Violence,” Habbakuk says, Violence on every side! Sounds like a great idea, the devil whispers into my heart…and yours…

And that’s the way it is. People can choose to love, or they can choose to hate. And God will not stop them. They can choose to go to heaven, or choose to go to hell.

And old and very wise friend of mine used to say that, when he was younger, he found it very hard to believe that anyone could be in hell. But since he grew older, he said, he now has a list!

There is evil in this world. And people will sin against you. Jesus told us as much. They will revile us and talk about us and say every vile thing against you. 

That’s what Jesus meant when from the wood of the Cross when he prayed the first lines of Psalm 22: “My God, my God, why ave you forsaken me!” For at that moment Jesus was taking upon himself all the violence and all the sufferings of every man or woman who ever lived. He takes them upon himself, like an innocent sheep led to the slaughter, and he invites us to join our sufferings to his.

So, when they treat you so badly, join your sufferings to his.

When they spread life about you behind your back, join your sufferings to his.

When they seek to kill your reputation or make everyone hate you, join your sufferings to his.

When that same relative does that same thing again at Thanksgiving, join your sufferings to his.

When even your spouse or your kids or your best friend turn against you, join your sufferings to his.

For he hangs there, nailed to a tree for love of you. Which is why that Cross is our only salvation.

So what we are we to do, in the face of Violence. The same thing he did. We are to join our sufferings to his, and just like Jesus, open our arms and pray, “Father forgive them, for they know not what they do.”