Laughter

A Basque priest arrived at St. John's Cathedral this year. He heard on the radio in his native area that there were no remaining Basque priests serving the Catholic people of the Northwest. What did he do in response? He moved to Boise. He is a true missionary.

Today, Fr. Antonio heard my confession, and he reminded me of an important lesson. My sin was related to pride and taking too personally and seriously the reputation I have with others. His counsel? Laugh at yourself. Don't take yourself or life too seriously. Live in a coherent, faithful way, and do not worry what others think.

I like to think I am fairly secure in my identity, that I can take the criticism, that I don't care much for perceptions. Mostly, I am confident, but I am no finished product. Insecurities persist. Criticism can sting. Growth requires humility.

Laughter helps the process. When mistakes and insecurities become points of shoulder shrugging instead of deep sighing, God's mercy can be welcomed into the space created by the release of tension. I need to laugh more. I need to be more joyful. I needed the reminder from a priest who traveled from Europe to share a snippet of hope in the confessional. Thank you, Fr. Antonio.

My brothers Luke and Michael ran with me in the "toughest race in the Northwest" on Saturday. Robin Creek is 13.1 miles, 2000 feet in elevation climb, and then a straight drop after the peak. Our knees survived, and each of us gratefully completed the brutal course.

Easter

Empty.
Empty.
Empty.
No one is here.
The sky is dark.
The burial cloths gone.
The rock is moved.
The tomb is opened.

Empty.
Empty.
Empty.
No one is here.
The Lord is alive.
The Lord is alive?
The Lord is alive!
Jesus is risen!
Christ has returned!
Hope burns eternal!
Death has no sting!

Where is the Lord? Where is he now?
He walks among us. His wounds to show.
Resurrected, triumphant, conquering, loving.
He walks among us, for us to know.

To know the curtain is shattered.
The Holy of Holies incarnate, made man.
To know God dwells among us.
Just look at his feet, and his side, and his hands.

For me. For you. For us. For all.
The Passion of Jesus made up for our fall.
Our sins forgiven, our scars made clean.
He came not to condemn, but to intervene.

He’s alive. The women see, the apostles too.
Because our hearts he shall always pursue.
The good news is shouted, proclaimed, declared.
By all who not long ago were just scared.

Along the road to Emmaus, he appears again.
Breaking the word open with friends.
He waits for the invite to come inside.
In bread he appears and will always abide.

To the doubting, he puts the hand in his flesh.
The wounds are still there, the scarring is fresh.
Blessed are those who without sight still believe.
That Christ has risen anew, that Him we receive.

That like an egg he embodies new life.
That like a flower our hope can now bloom.
That at Easter each year we rejoice
That Jesus has risen from the tomb.

New life we celebrate. A genesis amended.
His grace sufficient. His body and soul ascended.
This is our faith, the faith of the Church.
This is the longing for which our hearts search.

Join in the chorus. Sing praise to the Lord.
For he is our King. Our hope is restored!

Coming

Goodness

...and the angels are silent.

Feet

I volunteered today at the Corpus Christi House in Boise at a foot washing clinic. I was not the washer (that was left to podiatrists and nurses). My friend Frankie and I prepared tubs for foot soaking and removed them after use. Over 50 people--almost all of whom were homeless or living in poverty--received treatment ranging from cleaning, clipping, filing, and massaging. Each person seemed genuinely grateful.

I was grateful, too, for the experience and the reminder that Jesus does whatever it takes to meet us, welcome us, involve us, challenge us, love us. He enters into the dirty depths of our fallenness individually and collectively. He showers us with streams of mercy, water, and blood. He feeds us His Body and Blood in the Holy Eucharist. He gives us strength for every journey.

And tonight? Tonight he washes our feet.

Eyes

I went to a teen's dance recital this evening. Many groups performed, quite a few individuals danced solo, and the pride and appreciation of parents and friends was apparent. The ladies worked diligently at their craft and showed tremendous growth and skill this night.

Still, something else stuck with me. To most, it was a passing moment that evoked a gentle smile or a mild laugh. Between dance routines, a slight, blond-haired boy of three or four came to the gym floor. The Vallivue High School band was playing intermittent music to pass the break, and the boy used the music to mimic the moves he had seen many of the young women execute minutes earlier. He twirled and hopped and added his own take. As he did all this, the crowd murmured about his cuteness, and with dozens of eyes on him, the boy took little notice. He danced away. The boy's eyes were fixed on only one person: His father.

In all his contortions and twists, a smile continued on the blond-haired boy's tender face, and a constant glance into the bleachers was met with consistent approval from his daddy's gaze. He did not care about the audience's approval or the snippet of fame he was experiencing; he only wanted his father's love.

We should all be set on the gaze of our Father. Where are our eyes fixed as we dance?