Joy & Happiness

I saw some Seattle friends on the hilltop yesterday. Mark, Karyn, and Calle stopped on their way to visit Fr. Jose, who moved in August from St. Elizabeth Ann Seton to a parish in Hillsboro, Oregon. Something about seeing familiar faces in this new place brings me happiness, even if the conversation is only for a few minutes.

Happiness and joy for me lately have been topics of reflection. My own definition for joy is something much deeper than happiness. Happiness feels good. Most of the time it is good. I feel happy when I eat good food, watch a funny movie, score a goal, or see old friends unexpectedly. Happiness most often is momentary and associated somehow with pleasure, whether with the senses or emotions.

Joy isn't as fleeting. Joy is soulful and may not reflect the mood I am feeling. I experience the most joy when I am disciplined and am able to submit my will.

To understand the difference between joy and happiness, I think about two scenes from The Passion of the Christ. The first is a brief cutaway to the life of Jesus before His passion. He is a carpenter by trade, and in this scene, Jesus shows his mother a table he just finished building that's taller than usual. She tells him it will never catch on, invites him inside to eat, and tells him he must clean up first. They giggle and are happy. Jesus and Mary are also content, fulfilled, full of love, and full of joy.



The second scene is markedly different. It occurs as Jesus carries his cross. He is caked with blood from scourging, his features barely recognizable because of the beating he unjustly endured. On his severely weakened back he carries the instrument of his death. Crowds around him riot. Jesus loses his footing, and the thick beams crash on open flesh. He falls.

As he does, Mary rushes to his side, filled with sorrow. This is her beloved son. This is the savior of the world. This is the fruit of her womb. She changed his diapers, saw him grow, loved him as only a mother can. We see this with bits of a childhood fall intermingled in the imagery, Mary catching Jesus in both instances, telling him, "I am here." But childhood is gone. Now he is passionately suffering to death. She meets him briefly, summoning the courage to be at his side and give him strength by her presence. Jesus rises again, telling his mother achingly, "See, I make all things new."


Jesus summons the fortitude to walk onward in his passion, and somehow he has joy. Not happiness, not pleasure, but even in the extremest suffering, joy. Do you see?

When we take part in the Pascal Mystery we are faced with the paradox of joy. How can Jesus be suffering immeasurably yet be full of abiding joy in fulfilling the Father's will?

That's my point of reflection even as I am carrying no cross and have suffered no scourging. My life is quite comfortable with meals provided and support surrounding me. In tangible ways I cannot compare to Calvary. Still, joy has been difficult for me to find lately.

That's not to say I haven't found moments of happiness at seminary. I have. Some days I really enjoy. I am for the most part happy, but I am also restless. Enjoyment, happiness, and pleasure do not equate to joy. There is a tension in my life I've had difficulty defining. It's not a "dry period" as I've known before in the spiritual life, nor am I wanting for anything in particular. Occasionally I experience moments of revelation in prayer, bits of clarity from God meant for my comfort and purpose. As I pray these days I find this tension of the unknown: Am I fit to be a priest? Is the meeting place for my gifts, the church's need, and God's will? Will I be happy as a celibate man? Could I ever leave seminary and not still wonder if God is asking this of me? Is there another place I could and should be?

The questions multiply and so does the restlessness. I trust that being at Mount Angel will yield spiritual fruit in my life, but the seeds of the spiritual life -- contemplation, reflection, worship -- grow slowly before fruits like peace can be understood and appreciated. The tension comes in the waiting. Somehow in life we should always find ourselves in that tension if we're doing spirituality the right way. This is the human condition: There is always hope and always sorrow. The Kingdom of God is here and now but still to come. Fulfillment is not full just yet. Ronald Rolheiser describes this tension in the book I'm reading, The Holy Longing:

In the Gospels...to ponder is less a question of intellectually contemplating something as it is of patiently holding it inside of one's soul, complete with all the tension it brings. Thus, when Mary stands under the cross of Jesus and watches him die -- and there is absolutely nothing she can do to save him or even to protest his innocence and goodness -- she is pondering in the biblical sense. She is carrying a great tension that she is helpless to resolve and must simply live with. That is what scripture refers to when it tells us that Mary "kept these things in her heart and pondered them." Thus, to ponder, biblically, is to stand before life's great mysteries the way Mary stood before the various events of Jesus' life, including the way she stood under the cross. There is great joy in that but there can also be incredible tension. The type of mysticism that we most need today to revitalize our faith is precisely this kind of pondering, a willingness to carry tension as Mary did.

Somehow I discover new ways of living in that tension each day here. The task never becomes easy or the load lighter, but I don't begrudge this opportunity to sit with Mary beneath the cross. I am learning to embrace it, even as I want more immediate gratification in knowing where the tension leads.

What tension do you carry? Are you pondering? Are you entering the Pascal Mystery? Do you know the deep, abiding joy that carries us through our lives?

Let us keep pondering. May we persevere in prayer, and allow God to breathe into our lives so we can discover joy together and become saints and so that moments like the one with my friends on the hilltop can be part of our eternity in heaven.

Lemon Bread

Some food signals more than just another thing to eat. Some food carries memories. Some food offers comfort. Some food brings us back to the kitchen of our childhood.

That food for me is Mom's Lemon Bread.

We ate it at Easter and Christmas, found it some mornings for breakfast or afternoons for a snack. My mom is known for her lemon bread, but it's difficult to duplicate because she doesn't use a recipe anymore. She just knows it by feel because of familiarity honed in repeated batches through the childhoods of five boys and now 11 grandchildren. Linda's Lemon Bread. It's how my family does comfort food.

In my first attempt at cooking on the hilltop, I made some lemon bread. The process, the aroma, the taste -- everything about lemon bread makes me feel at ease. At home. At peace.

I threw in a big plate of Funfetti cookies just because they are easy, and I could hand them out around campus. Who doesn't like a good cookie?

Most of my friends from St. Elizabeth Ann Seton have at some point eaten a Funfetti cookie at a meeting or gathering. They were my go-to dessert because they are fast, easy, require few ingredients, and are generally enjoyed by all.

I thought of many things I could write about this experience -- the challenge of buying just the right amount of ingredients for a recipe; using all the sugar by accident when I needed more for the glaze and having to open 30 sugar packets; bringing all the right tools down two levels to the only kitchen in our building (and then remembering the other tools I needed); skipping homework for an afternoon to cook; the unbelief by some seminary brothers that I actually made the cookies myself -- but the soothing power of lemon bread stands out. Food can be a powerful experience.

Perhaps that's why the Eucharist evokes the depths of our humanity. It's food at its best, sacred and divine, the meeting of mere mortals with immortality, and the gathering of the whole Church, past, now, and to come. Whatever separates us, we can be united in the blood and body. It's the ultimate comfort food.

Monks on the run

Smile.

Chuckle.

Laugh.

It's 7:56 a.m.

Thursday morning.

Cloudy skies and cool morning temperatures.

Me, making the short walk from the retreat house to St. Joseph Chapel, no more than a few hundred feet.

The Abbey tower straight above, bells clanging to indicate Mass is just a few minutes away.

Seminarians in all black descending on the Chapel.

And there, off by Anselm Hall, a couple brick walkways over, maybe 2,500 feet, there they are, the source of my chuckle.

Fr. Ralph and Fr. Liam, in black Benedictine habits -- heavy, simple, distinguishing clothing -- and they are running -- not sprinting but exerting more than a jog -- late for Mass, afraid they won't have time to vest before the bells cease, and the celebration commences.

They are grinning in the child-like quality of the moment, passing by seminarians, serving as a reminder that even they, well-trained and disciplined monks, aren't always contemplative. Our humanity is shared in their grins and stomping foray to beat the clock.

Something about this sight brings me joy. The humor of it all. Monks in their habits, running like school kids to avoid being tardy. I can't help myself.

I smile.

Chuckle.

Laugh.

The Rhythm of Life

A few years ago I read Matthew Kelly's The Rhythm of Life. Some would describe it as a self-help book, though I like to think of it as a guide to healthy life skills. The line I remember most is one he repeats in his other written works and speaking engagements: Your life changes when your habits change. Show me your habits, and I'll tell you what kind of person you are.

The structure of seminary life teaches me habits, daily rituals of spending my time in ways that reflect particular priorities. In habit, rhythm of life develops. Days flow, weeks flow, months flow, years flow, and all the sudden, a new life beckons with ordination, new habits will need to be cultivated, new responsibilities understood, new rhythms established. I'm not that far, but I can see the progression. My rhythm of life at seminary includes many routines.

My rhythm includes waking to the bells at 6:30 a.m. Our Abbey bell tower fills the hilltop at that early hour and again for Mass and evening prayer with five-minute intervals of booming overtones. At present, when I wake the skyline isn't illuminated, the sun not quite risen, though night is faded into the predawn haze. I make my bed, clean my face, apply deodorant, slip into the clerical collar, and head to breakfast.

My rhythm includes Morning Prayer from the Daily Office at 7:30 a.m. with the entire seminary community (Monday, Wednesday, and Friday) or my diocesan brothers (Tuesday and Thursday). Each day Mass is celebrated at 8 a.m., with traditional English in St. Joseph Chapel on Monday, Thursday, and Friday; English with the monks and organ music in the Abbey Church on Tuesday; and Spanish on Wednesday.

My rhythm includes three philosophy classes on Monday and Wednesday; classes all day (9 a.m. to noon, and 1 p.m. to 4 p.m.) on Tuesday; only one Thursday and two Friday classes; and a trip to the Klackamas County Juvenile Center in Oregon City on Thursday afternoon for a pastoral assignment working with youth that have yet to get into serious trouble but need a little extra guidance to help them practice good decision-making skills.

My rhythm includes soccer in the gym at 4 p.m. on weekdays. I'd prefer to play on the field, except that our field is alternately a jungle of overgrowth and a path of irregular ruts, which means odd bounces of the ball, potential for ankle injuries, and lack of tempo in our play. The gym is adequate as a soccer venue, though not ideal, with its six-by-five-foot goals, sweat-inducing humidity, bad-habit-inducing walls, and quick-transition-inducing tight spaces.

My rhythm includes studying (and occasionally napping) in the afternoons, opening the books again at night, and learning how to stay alert and inquisitive flipping through so many pages of material. I've walked the hill while reading, gone to various study areas, sat on the benches outside -- whatever it takes to ingest the philosophical jargon and memorize Latin declinations and conjugations.

My rhythm includes Night Prayer at 5:30 p.m. with the seminary community, followed by a rosary some nights, followed by dinner. Communal prayer is a large part of Benedictine spiritual life, and the Benedictine monks color seminary life at every turn.

My rhythm includes a deep breath on Friday afternoons. I can dress down in jeans and a T-shirt, watch a movie, do some laundry, go into the city, or be off on my own. Friday nights I avoid studies entirely, letting my mind decompress the stresses of the week and letting my body rest. Sabbath begins.

My rhythm includes Saturdays of my own choosing. A hike here, some homework, Liturgy of the Hours and Mass (daily obligations at all times), maybe sports, a movie or TV.

My rhythm includes Sunday Mass in clerical garb, squeezing the maximum amount of homework into the day, aligning my schedule for the week, and starting the cycle again with Monday once the morning comes.

My rhythm includes a bedtime routine starting around 10 o'clock. Check Facebook, check sports scores, floss and brush my teeth, go to the bathroom, pull the covers and pillows into place, read until my eyelids become heavy, flick off the lamp, and (hopefully) fall into a deep, restful sleep until the bells ring again.

My rhythm isn't perfect. I remarked to another seminarian yesterday that it seems no two weeks are the same. They aren't. And they shouldn't be. The rhythm of life isn't about sameness. Rather, we human beings cycle and flow, our lives weaving patterns of regularity that give us purpose and familiarity. Going to a new place demands that the rhythm be rediscovered. That is the process in which I find myself.

Matthew Kelly's book asks penetrating questions. What is your rhythm of life? What are your habits? Do they reflect the life you want to lead?

I cannot answer the questions fully, but then, we never really can because we are always in some sort of transition. I trust God is taking this rhythm and teaching me something from it. Lately I've reflected on this blog about the lesson of letting go, of resting, reflecting, praying, and seeking. I'm easing into it, ever gradually.

What is God teaching you today?

The Hymn

This week we twice sang a hymn at Mass I had not heard before. The hymn is called "I Heard the Voice of Jesus Say."As I seek the contentment of spirit mentioned in an earlier post, this song caused me to ponder. The first two lines in particular created for me a point of reflection:

I heard the voice of Jesus say, “Come unto Me and rest;

Lay down, thou weary one, lay down thy head upon My breast.”

I came to Jesus as I was, weary and worn and sad;

I found in Him a resting place, and He has made me glad.

I heard the voice of Jesus say, “Behold, I freely give

The living water; thirsty one, stoop down, and drink, and live.”

I came to Jesus, and I drank of that life giving stream;

My thirst was quenched, my soul revived, and now I live in Him.

I heard the voice of Jesus say, “I am this dark world’s Light;

Look unto Me, thy morn shall rise, and all thy days be bright.”

I looked to Jesus, and I found in Him my Star, my Sun;

And in that light of life I’ll walk, till traveling days are done.
Horatius Bonar (1808 - 1889)

That image remained with me as I pulled the covers on and put my head on the pillow at night: "Lay down, thou weary one, lay down thy head upon My breast." Very peaceful, isn't it? My life's completely in transition with a future I am trying to navigate, and unease creeps into my thoughts. I feel insecure at times, yet called to this period of inquiry, retreat, and formation. More than any other lesson, I must cultivate moments of laying my weary self upon Christ's breast. The phrasing sounds awkward since this is a nineteenth-century hymn, but the intimacy of Christ as healer and lover of my soul brings comfort to the inner turmoil of unknowing. "Lay down, thou weary one, lay down."

I couldn't find a version of the song I really liked, but this was the best of the lot.

Oktoberfest

Our little town of Mount Angel will swell this weekend from its usual 3,700 residents to accommodate 300,000 visitors for Oktoberfest. My mom told me that figure on the phone this weekend. Surely not 300,000, I said. Maybe 30,000, but not 300,000. That's more than the population of Boise. I was wrong. The festival is indeed that large. Beer and bratwurst for everybody!

We seminarians walked down the hill and hit the streets tonight for some serious grub from a Knights of Columbus booth. The half-chicken meal started with perfectly seasoned hunk of bird, continued with fresh corn dripping with butter, and finished with shredded-cabbage-and-heavy-cream coleslaw. No joke, fill-yer-gut and more food. Really unhealthy, button-bursting, once-in-a-while meal.

As the topper, another seminarian treated me to -- hold onto your stomachs -- a deep-fried Twinkie with soft-serve ice cream. While I don't indulge in Twinkies or fried food often, this was a bucket list indulgence that had to be satisfied. Would I order it again? I doubt it. But I can now say I ate a deep-fried Twinkie. Check.

For anyone interested in Oktoberfest, it's always two weekends after Labor Day. Come to the party, and I promise to treat you to a deep-fried Twinkie or your gut-bomb of choice. If you want more information, here's the website: http://www.oktoberfest.org.

I'm off to study Latin and dream of fair food.

Jesus' Power

I should be studying, but I'm all caught up for tomorrow, so it's time for a post. The last couple months I've been slowly working through a spiritual book, one of those books that requires deeper reflection and constant self-examination. The book is The Holy Longing by Ronald Rolheiser. He writes many of the Advent and Lent reflection pamphlets Catholic churches hand out each year. Throughout the text, I am left thinking deeply about God's people, the Church, and my role in it and in the greater world as a follower of Christ. Today the passage defined social justice and how to go about seeking justice. I am going to share a portion. Hopefully you find it as provocative as I did.

What constitutes Jesus' real power? What ultimately brings about justice and peace?

Daniel Berrigan provides a good answer to this question. He was once asked to give a talk at a university gathering. The topic was something to the effect of "God's Presence in Today's World." His talk, I suspect, surprised a number of people in his audience, both in brevity and content.

He simply told the audience how he, working in a hospice for the terminally ill, goes each week to spend some time sitting by the bed of a young boy who is totally incapacitated, physically and mentally. The young boy can only lie there. He cannot speak or communicate with his body nor in any other way express himself to those who come into his room. He lies mute, helpless, by all outward appearance cut off from any possible communication. Berrigan then described how he goes regularly to sit by this young boy's bed to try to hear what he is saying in his silence and helplessness.

After sharing this, Berrigan added a further point: The way this young man lies in our world, silent and helpless, is the way God lies in our world. To hear what God is saying we must learn to hear what this young boy is saying.

This is an extremely useful image in helping understand God's power and how it manifests itself in our world. God's power is in the world like that young boy. It does not overpower anyone or anything. It lies muted, at the deep moral and spiritual base of things. It does not overpower with muscle, or attractiveness, or brilliance, or grace, as does the speed and muscle of an Olympic athlete, the physical beauty of a young film star, or the gifted speech or rhetoric of the brilliant orator or author. These latter things -- muscle, swiftness, beauty, brilliance, grace -- reflect God's glory, but they are not the primary way God shows power in this world. God's power in the world has a very different look and a very different feel to it.

What does God's power look like? How does it feel to feel as God in this world?

If you have ever been overpowered physically and been helpless in that, if you have ever been hit or slapped by someone and been powerless to defend yourself or fight back, then you have felt how God feels in this world.

If you have ever dreamed a dream and found that every effort you made was hopeless and that your dream could never be realized, if you have cried tears and felt shame at your own inadequacy, then you have felt how God feels in this world.

If you have ever been shamed in your enthusiasm and not given a chance to explain yourself, if you have ever been cursed for your goodness by people who misunderstand you and were powerless to make them see things in your way, then you have felt how God feels in this world.

If you have ever tried to make yourself attractive to someone and were incapable of it, if you have ever loved someone and wanted desperately to somehow make him or her notice you and found yourself hopelessly unable to do so, then you have felt how God feels in this world.

If you have ever felt yourself aging and losing both the health and tautness of a young body and the opportunities that come with that and been powerless to turn back the clock, if you have ever felt the world slipping away from you as you grow older and ever more marginalized, then you have felt how God feels in this world.

And if you have ever felt like a minority of one before the group hysteria of a crowd gone mad, if you have ever felt, firsthand, the sick evil of a gang rape, then you have felt how God feels in this world...and how Jesus felt on Good Friday.

God never overpowers. God's power in this world is never the power of a muscle, a speed, a physical attractiveness, a brilliance, or a grace which (as the contemporary expression has it) blows you away and makes you shout: "Yes! Yes! There is a God!" The world's power tries to work that way. God's power though is more muted, more helpless, more shamed, and more marginalized. But it lies at a deeper level, at the ultimate base of things, and will, in the end, gently have the final say.

To work for justice and peace in this world is not to move from being Mother Teresa to being Rambo or Batman. The God who undergirds justice and peace beats up no one and his or her cause is not furthered when we do.