Diversity

In my course this semester on the Multicultural Church we are reading and discussing journalist John Allen's The Future Church, a look into world trends that are dramatically changing Roman Catholicism. Gathered at the table are two Vietnamese Americans, a Micronesian, one Hawaiian, a seminarian from Rwanda, an Anglo raised in China, someone born in Vietnam who came here after high school, another Vietnamese who was born in the United States, a professor of mixed heritage with Japanese grandparents, another seminarian who was born and lived childhood in Poland, two who were born in Mexico, one with a Filipino parent, and only four Americans with Western European heritage.

We meander through Allen's trends--the rapid expansion of Catholics into Africa, Asia, and Latin America where the majority of Church-goers now reside; the morally conservative but socially liberal views prevalent in third world countries; the seminaries at capacity in Africa and the sending of Southern Hemisphere priests to the United States and Europe; the indifference toward religion in the  Western world; the rise of Islam and tension with Muslims; the shared tenets of faith that might ally Muslims and Catholics in grappling with secularization; the challenges of a multicultural church at the parish, diocesan, national, and global levels; and the hope that these trends can be recognized, embraced, and utilized for the betterment of God's Kingdom and Christ's Body.

Just as important as the content, though, is the meeting of minds. How is it that such a diverse group of people that could choose to do many other things with their lives come to meet here at Mount Angel Seminary twice a week in preparation for future ministry as priests? The mystery of God brings us to gather. We are drawn to something greater, more ancient, more lasting than any of the careers or aspirations we might otherwise know.

That's not to say every statement and conversation we speak is wise or that we avoid the typical temptation to nod in and out of attention, but we share a journey in our diversity, a purpose in our presence, and that is enough to intrigue. As we sort through the muddiness of culture clashes, religious fervor, historical shifts, and the need for humility in this rapid, charged era of the world, we fill our minds with the direction needed to lead people effectively, whether in ordained ministry or elsewhere. The seminary experience is one with high demand of our time, intellectual exploration, cultivation of virtue, commitment to prayer and divine relationship, and formation of our temperament, character, and skills. In settings like this classroom we see foretaste the fullness of the eternal, immense, diverse Church, and we are invited to explore as far as we are able. I thank God for the opportunity.

Snowfall

Classes were canceled on Friday, and so were all our weekend activities as the snow began to accumulate. Our hilltop is magnificently covered in inches of powder, shrouded in the fog of the Willamette Valley, blanketed by the quiet snow brings. I have been slowly reading, pondering, praying, and breaking from life during this unexpected respite from the normally jammed schedule.

That's not to forget the fun we've had during this winter storm: A few snowball fights ensued, the seminarians from warm weather climates played like grade schoolers, a tackle football game took place, a few cars were stranded at the bottom of the hill, and even now, many of us have spent the additional time to do homework figuring out ways to avoid doing homework.

This winter reveling has been wonderful, but I'm almost ready to return to normalcy. Almost.

I suppose one more day of messy roads and canceled classes would probably be welcomed by all of us procrastinating seminarians.

Joani

All my activities seem to have been back-to-back for the last few weeks, so I have not been able to spend time here blogging. I promise to write more soon. A couple topics are swirling in my head already. For now, here is a piece I wrote for the Journalism Practicum on a friend of mine and of many on the hilltop who recently retired.

Joani Steffen Retires, Remembers, is Embraced

By Daniel Miller

After ten years, 121 tubes of lipstick, hundreds of meals, and untold hugs, Joani Steffen retired from Bon Appetit’s food service at Mount Angel Seminary on Thursday, January 30. As an overseer for the dining room, Steffen gained the friendship of seminarians, staff, faculty, monks, and members of the hilltop community.

“With Joani, she’s so much more than an employee,” seminarian Andres Emmanuelli of the Diocese of Sacramento said. He added, “She makes her ordinary work an extraordinary thing, the way she’s living it—with her whole attitude of loving care and the small things she does for each seminarian.”

Many that entered the Aquinas Dining Room when Steffen worked found the greeting to be as welcoming as the fare. Steffen became known for her hugs that helped fill the void of motherly affection for many seminarians. Abbot Peter Eberle, O.S.B., said Steffen's hugs would be the thing most missed by the seminarians upon her retirement.

“Her sheer goodness is such a delight to bump into at meals every day,” Eberle said.

For seminarians with particular dietary needs, Steffen vigilantly watched over the supply of foods they could eat and made sure they were fed well, Emmanuelli said. Steffen kept track of the many people in the dining room by studying the photo directory each autumn and matching names to faces. Steffen’s co-worker and friend Annette Dettwyler said that through her collection of current and previous directories and her notes in a small notebook, Steffen tracked where past seminarians had relocated through graduation to new institutions, ordination to the priesthood in particular dioceses, or discernment to other vocations. Steffen came to know much of the hilltop community personally. Seminarians often confided in her and felt uplifted by her demeanor, hugs, and advice.

"There is nothing she doesn't do for [seminarians] that she doesn't do for her own kids," Dettwyler said.

With Steffen at the helm, many noticed a distinctive sparkle about the dining area. She constantly picked up crumbs or stray bits of food to make the presentation of meals pristine. Steffen was sure to have the fruit bowls overflowing, with no intermixing of fruits from bowl to bowl but always a variety of colors to appeal visually to diners, Dettwyler said. A bowl of lemons, though functionally not useful, enhanced the display and showcased Steffen’s care for appearance and cleanliness.

Steffen also kept a professional personal appearance. Dettwyler said she went through a tube of lipstick about every month, which would amount to 121 containers over her tenure.

“I have lipstick I have been using for years!” Dettwyler said.

It was Dettwyler that advocated for Steffen to be hired 10 years ago after the two worked together at a special seminary event. Then in need of medical insurance that came with the job, Steffen joined the staff. She and her husband Bill were grateful for the medical insurance in the years following her hiring. In 2007, Steffen was diagnosed with cancer and underwent chemotherapy, and in 2009, Bill needed quintuple bypass surgery for heart trouble. When she was being treated, Steffen took a leave of absence for many months, but she still visited the hilltop and kept her friendly disposition.

“Guys would pat her on her little bald head,” Dettwyler said. “She said she would take cancer any day over depression.”

Though she will not be spending 32 hours a week at work on the hilltop, Steffen will visit. Her connections are too deep to relinquish.

Since Steffen spent much of her childhood in Mount Angel, she has built relationships with many families, community members, and even a couple monks over some 50 years. Eberle has siblings that are Steffen’s age, and he will often ask how their mutual acquaintances from town are faring. Fr. Paschal Cheline, O.S.B., met Steffen when she attended Kennedy High School and he taught there starting in 1964, and they have maintained a friendship since.

“She has been an excellent witness to what the Lord asks from all of us: joyful service!” Cheline said. 

As retirement neared, Steffen wondered how she would replace her work routine. Her commute from the Silver Falls area provided time for a rosary and prayer, and as she reached the bottom of the hill, she would intercede for members of the seminary and abbey communities by name. Her trips between the dining room and kitchen helped her walk 3-5 miles per shift. But it was the relationships Steffen said she would miss most.

Still, her retirement to-do list is full: Deep cleaning the house, sewing, beading, scrapbooking, helping Bill with their tree farm, spending time with her twelve grandchildren and four children, all of whom live within an hour.

Steffen ceased full-time employment with a lunchtime celebration on her final day featuring house-made cupcakes, fried Twinkies, punch, and affection from the community she embraced in her decade of service.

“I had to work, but loving my job is an extra benefit,” Steffen said.

Tradition

I am 28 years old, yet I can still be a little kid at times. One of those times is on Christmas Eve when I make my parents read The Polar Express with me. (They happily oblige, and we all relish the chance to do this each year.) We have a wooden train whistle to blow when the locomotive arrives in front of the house and some bells we ring as Santa presents the first gift of Christmas. (Or when my nieces and nephews read the story with us, they sporadically blow the whistle and ring the bells as they see fit.) The story is timeless, and the tradition of reading it is a throwback to simpler times. No matter my age, I am always my parents' child.

Doodling

I probably distract those around me slightly, but when I sit to listen to a long theological or academic conference, I find that my attention is best kept if I bring a journal and pen to doodle notes based on what the speaker is saying. If a neighbor didn't know better, they would probably think I'm disengaged, but for some reason, my brain processes the information more attentively and effectively by transferring it from head to hand to pen to page. Last week as we entered our silent retreat to begin the semester, Bishop Emeritus Gordon Bennett delivered 13 conferences over four and a half days based on the questions asked by Jesus in the Gospel of John. He spoke poignant truths and challenged us to think and pray over our relationship with the Lord and with the Church as we continue this path to priesthood. I listened. I doodled. And I pondered.

I journaled 14 pages by Friday, some of it notes from the conferences but some of it personal reflection too. When silence is ample, reflection is inevitable. Before ordination, bishops and priests are often expected to make a silent retreat. This is a purposeful time of discernment rather like Jesus going into the desert before his public ministry or to places of solitude before he met people to perform healings and to preach. Since I've written about silence many times before, I do not need to recycle the theme, but I want to share the single insight that meant the most to me during the retreat.

The insight came near the end as Bishop Bennett closed his conferences by speaking to us about the individual responsibility of relationship and fidelity. He put to us the question Jesus asks Peter in John 21:22. This question comes just after Jesus finishes asking Peter three times, "Do you love me?" Following each answer from Peter, Jesus tells the apostle to tend his sheep and feed his lambs, which Peter rightly understands as Christ asking him to assume a position of leadership carrying forward the Lord's ministry. Then Peter asks Jesus about the Apostle John, the Beloved Disciple. What about him, Peter asks. Shouldn't he be the one to lead us after you are gone? Jesus replies with the question that Bishop Bennett used as the basis for the conference: "If it is my will that he remain until I come, what is that to you? You, follow me."

You, follow me. Cease looking around you at others. Possess yourself. Own the feelings, choices, and actions you make. Your call is unique. Listen carefully, and listen individually. I will speak to you, Jesus says.

Then Bishop Bennett spoke a thought I needed to hear: God will not likely tell you what to do. God does not make decisions for you. God does not invade on your freedom. The choice is yours.

This idea is simple, but for me it was new. I subconsciously understood discernment as a passive process--ask God for the answers, and eventually the direction will come. Directions at times may very well be obvious, but God's revelation is not usually that cheap. If discerning direction were easy, everyone wouldn't struggle through the many significant choices we make throughout life. The crucible of change, formation, and decision shapes and molds us; it shapes and molds me. I am called to take an active role in my discernment. This is what I wrote in my journal as I responded to Bishop's Bennett's (and the Holy Spirit's) message:

God will not make a decision for you. The Lord gave you freedom to do that for yourself. Stop passively waiting for a divine answer. PURSUE your vocation FERVENTLY. List the dreams you have. Take a spiritual gifts inventory. Make your liturgical and devotional prayers regular and joyful. Receive God's love. Rest in God's peace. But do not cease to give back what you can, what you are able, what your circumstances will allow. Discernment is not passive. Go.

Later at lunch when the silence was broken, I thanked Bishop Bennett for the retreat and for this thought in particular. He told me that our lives are like pieces of glass God fits together into a mosaic. God may be the one forming the masterpiece, but we provide the pieces. The Lord can make beauty from our messy, scattered, at times even ugly humanity. We are His. And for that reason, our mosaics are transformed into stories worth telling. What story are you and I writing?

Soccer

I promised last post to share some of the experiences that filled autumn semester, but Christmas Break distracted me. For today, I would like to recount the rather astounding soccer season we enjoyed on the hilltop.

First, let me offer some context for our soccer program. Some of this may be repeated information, but to understand the fullness of our team's story, it ought to be shared again. We play in the Cascade Collegiate Soccer League at a club level against squads from area schools--Central Oregon Community College, Lewis & Clark College, Oregon State University, Portland State University, Reed College, and Willamette University. Last season we won two out of ten games, and our record was celebrated by the seminary as the finest anyone could remember. Our leading goal scorer and captain graduated, and only six players returned to the team this year.

I served as the player-coach after playing for the team last autumn, and I tempered my expectations internally though I was hopeful the season could be a success for reasons other than winning. (Fraternity and the cultivation of virtue are excellent reasons to play even for a losing outfit.) When I arrived back at seminary in late August, I met a number of new students interested in playing for the team, and to my surprise, many of them were very able soccer players. We had 22 players sign up, and 20 played in games at some point. That is an achievement in participation.

After beginning training in September, we started our league schedule with a 4-4 tie against Willamette on our muddy, mismeasured home field. They were furious with themselves for letting the minnows from Mount Angel play them even, but we weren't finished surprising opponents. We went undefeated in our first four games. We won six out of ten games. We tied two. We lost only twice. We were the only team to take points from the top two teams in the league. We had the leading scorer in the league. We achieved more than anyone, including us, had expected at season's beginning. To understand why this is incredible, one must grasp the competitive disadvantages we faced.

Our school draws from about 150 students, many of whom cannot make the time commitment to play a sport. Reed College has 1,400 students. Willamette has 2,000 undergraduate students. Lewis & Clark has 3,700. Central Oregon is a tick above 7,000. Oregon State? Almost 28,000. Portland State? 29,500.

Our athletic budget at Mount Angel is $4,500 for all three of our team sports (basketball, soccer, and volleyball) plus any incidental costs to repair athletic or recreational facilities. Our home games are played on a pitch that doubles as the home of a gopher family and boasts some of the ruddiest terrain between the lines of any regulation playing field. The goal posts are set in cement but were not placed parallel to each other, so one sideline is 18 feet longer than the other. The place becomes a mud pit when the autumn rains fall. Even the gate to get into the field doesn't get unlocked on game days. We have to go around the fence and through a puddle-filled passageway opened up by thousands of footsteps sneaking around the fence's edge. When we don't play on the field, we put up small goals in our gym, where the seal on the hardwood floors is coming up like candy wrappers, and the walls, doors, stage curtain, and rafters present unique challenges to the flow of the game.

We didn't have enough white uniforms to outfit all our players, so we wore blue each game. Our limited window of practice time was for one hour, 4-5 p.m., on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, assuming we didn't have another event for the seminary that conflicted. Only about half of the team could come to each training session, and even that number dwindled at the end of the season.

Quite simply, we competed in a way that our competitive disadvantages should not have allowed us to compete. The schools in our league fielded teams that drew from vastly larger student pools, probably practiced 4-5 days a week for two hours a practice with superior facilities, less time-consuming responsibilities for school, and more money to finance their endeavors. Yet we competed and even won.

As coach, I am proud of the team results, but as a brother seminarian of my teammates, I think we ought to take more pride in the practices we attended, the sacrifices we made, the friendships we built, the patience we exercised, the fortitude we developed, the humility we learned, the integration of faith we implemented, and the witness we offered.

During finals week, I sat at my desk reviewing notes for an exam I would take in the morning when I heard a commotion in the hallway. This isn't unusual. After a minute or so of hearing a large and growing group of voices outside my door, someone knocked. My teammates had all broken their studies to say thank you to me for coaching. They presented to me a soccer ball each one of them had autographed. Even our two diehard fans joined in the group. Not knowing what else to say, they started a rendition of happy birthday. I was humbled and grateful for their gesture.

At its core, soccer is a simple endeavor--22 players trying to put a round ball in the opponent's goal. Setting aside the offside rule and the intricacy of tactics, soccer is a competition with the potential to teach life lessons and cultivate virtue. If we did that this season, even had we gone winless, God would have granted success to the work of our hands. That we experienced a few victories made the culmination even finer. It was a great season.

Finished

Finals week reached its conclusion for me yesterday. I had one exam after completing two others last Wednesday, and the two study days we had prior allowed me to finish the three synthesis papers I needed to compose. While many of my brother seminarians have further testing today and tomorrow, I get to relax a bit before driving away for the break. Since the semester is complete, I thought I might share a few moments that stand out. I will try to do this over the next few blogs. For today, I'd like to share one experience from my pastoral ministry. This is from a theological reflection I wrote in late September.

I never thought a sniffle could terrify me, but on Wednesday night, as I heard a second grader’s faint whimper, I knew tears were coming. A shred of dread filled my insides. How should I respond? It was the first day of Religious Education at St. Joseph Church in Salem. Twenty-one wonder-filled, hushed students packed the seats. We had not even shared names as this quivering boy verged on a breakdown. What should have been my pastoral response?

Without a name or any background on the boy, I kneeled before his desk, placing my face at his level and spoke as soothingly as I could. “Are you OK?” I half-whispered. “Would you like to come over to the side and sit with me? Maybe we could talk about how you’re feeling. All this new stuff can be overwhelming, can’t it?”

No response. Glassy eyes fixed on me. His young mind was overcome in the new surroundings.

There is no tremendous end to this story. The boy eventually wiped his nose and eyes and meekly stayed in his seat. I didn’t have precisely what he needed at that moment, so the best I could do was to help him feel welcome and recognize his discomfort at the newness of the situation. I don’t know whether he will come back. I hope he does. (He did return and is now well integrated into the class.)

In this moment I saw a new way of welcoming the stranger. Matthew 25:40 says, “…whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me” (NAB). Who is a lesser brother than a frightened child? Who needs welcoming more than a second-grader in a moment of vulnerability? Dorians offered for a fleeting second the opportunity to practice a corporal work of mercy: To welcome a stranger. Did I cause him to experience transformation with my words? Certainly not. But I tried to let him know that I and the other catechists in the room care about him and want him to be comfortable in our classroom. I found myself wanting to feel good after performing this seeming corporal work of mercy, to experience gratification and closure. I didn’t get that, but it was unfair of me to expect personal fulfillment.

Welcoming the stranger does not always result in conversion or fond memories. It is not for the benefit of the person doing the welcoming or the person doing the feeding or quenching the thirst. Rather, the corporal works of mercy are meant to provide essential food, drink, clothing, and shared humanity. Corporal works of mercy provide dignity to another. And when dignity is recognized, an overflow occurs that conforms us—that conforms me—to serve and love my neighbor without expectation of reward.

In moments like I experienced with this young boy, there is an immediate choice, and choices prudently made, said Blessed Pope John Paul II repeatedly in his teachings, are what transform ordinary people into holy saints. Did I choose rightly? There are small adjustments I could have made to help him more. Perhaps I could have asked him to help by passing out the nametags we were about to create. Or I could have said something more cheery to welcome him. What I did was instinctual. I tried to match his mood, speak at his level, and offer gentle welcome to a young boy who felt like an outsider. 

My approach may have been imperfect, but choices also mean an opportunity to learn. Next time I hear a sniffle, I won’t be terrified. I will be steadier in response, truer to welcome, and more relaxed in my approach. Experience is a fine teacher.