Monthly Newspaper • DIOCESE OF BRIDGEPORT

It’s June, and the wedding season is upon us, which reminds me of our wedding, when there was so much festivity the wine almost ran out, just like at Cana.

Let me put this in proper perspective. There was so much festivity, I considered shutting down the open bar. Too much of a good thing can become a bad thing.

The Wedding Feast at Cana lasted five to seven days. They knew how to celebrate in Jesus’ day. To recap, the guests were probably into their second or third day of celebration, when the wine ran out, which had the potential to become a major embarrassment for the family.

Ever-observant and attentive to the needs of others, the Blessed Mother turned to Jesus and said, “They have no wine.” And Jesus famously responded, “Woman, how does your concern affect me? My hour has not yet come.”

His use of the word “Woman” often startles us. I’ve even wondered what might have happened if I called my mother “Woman.” Let me speculate and take you back to Sunday dinner at the Pisani household. My father, my two sisters and I are seated around the table, preparing to feast on my mother’s famous veal parmigiana.

She’s finishing up in the kitchen, and I can’t resist tasting a forkful, but the veal is warm, so I call to her: “Woman, this veal parmigiana needs to be heated.”

Woman responds: “Then get off your lazy (word deleted) and heat it.” I guess Woman didn’t appreciate my constructive criticism.

However, to clarify, in Jesus’ time, the use of “woman,” which might be translated as “lady” or “ma’am,” was not a sign of disrespect. He used the word again as he hung on the cross and said, “Woman, behold your son. Son, behold your mother.” It has also been considered a reference to Our Lady as the “New Eve.”

Back to our narrative. The Blessed Mother turned to the head steward and, “Do whatever he tells you,” which is profound advice all of us should take to heart.

The Blessed Mother wasn’t deterred when Jesus hesitated, because she knew he would grant her request. That’s encouraging to those of us who pray for her intercession. It might not have been the right time, but Jesus answered his mother’s request nonetheless, because Jesus always answers his mother’s requests.

Jesus told them to fill six large stone jars with water and said, “Draw some out now and take it to the headwaiter.” When he tasted the water that had turned to wine, the waiter called the bridegroom and said, “Everyone serves good wine first, and when people have drunk freely, an inferior one; but you have kept the good wine until now.” St. John the Evangelist tells us that “Jesus did this as the beginning of his signs in Cana in Galilee and so revealed his glory, and his disciples began to believe in him.”

The Wedding Feast at Cana is one of the most beloved Gospel stories, frequently depicted in art. At the Basilica of the Immaculate Conception in Waterbury, classical painter Paul Armesto recently completed a 43-by-14-foot mural of the occasion. The second largest in the world, it covers an entire wall of the McGivney Family Center and has 72 figures.

“Next to the Resurrection, the Wedding Feast at Cana is the most celebratory event in the Bible,” rector Father James Sullivan says. “It has themes of marriage and family and the first miracle Jesus performed.”

The largest mural of Cana was painted by Paolo Veronese in Venice in 1563 and later stolen by Napoleon and brought to the Louvre in Paris, where it’s displayed opposite the Mona Lisa.

Armesto’s work has much symbolism. Light emanates from Christ, who is the central figure with the Blessed Mother. Nearby are the 12 apostles. Judas is the only one looking away from Jesus. There is an elderly couple and a dog, who is fixated on Christ, indicating all creation gives glory to God. Close to Peter is a rooster, foreshadowing his denial of Jesus three times before the cock crowed. Also included are the artists Veronese, Titian and Tintoretto.

Armesto, who spent months painting the mural, has works on display worldwide. For him, art has one ultimate purpose: “To praise God, who is the only Artist, the Creator.”

The beginning of summer brings thoughts of lazy days and firefly-speckled nights, hours spent outdoors in hopes of peace and rejuvenation. “Peace be with you,” we say to those around us on Sunday morning, wishing each one times filled with contentment.

While looking through photos on Instagram last week, I came across one of a Massachusetts harbor at sunrise. The image was so serene—sailboats in the background and a little dinghy off to the left, perfectly calm waters smooth as glass, and a sky the color of violet with sweeps of light pink in the distance. I imagined the photographer smiling as he took the picture, the sounds of seagulls and lapping waters the only distractions he likely had while capturing it that morning.

The heading read simply “This is what peace looks like.” That evening, I couldn’t agree more.

It had been an exceptionally busy day with commitments and responsibilities piling on top of each other. When one minor bit of chaos subsided, another began, so by the time I saw that photo late in the evening, I was ready to settle onto one of those sailboats and find my own little moment of peace.

Clicking to save that image, I thought about the heading. Standing on the dock that morning, that’s what peace looked like for him, but maybe a gust of wind blew by soon after or a captain started his engine, breaking the serenity. Such moments are often fleeting and finite, though we continue to find them—or they find us, sometimes intentionally, sometimes spontaneously.

On the Saturday of Father’s Day, when both the rain and our schedules had cleared, we decided to hike for the afternoon at a state park, taking advantage of the increasingly rare days all together as a family. Setting out on the orange trail, we headed for “Little Falls” but somehow ended up on the blue trail.

“It’s an adventure!” my husband Patrick said. Soon Abigail announced, “Little Falls is this way. Take a right!” Just then, the rain clouds opened again, albeit briefly. “Should we head back?” Elizabeth asked, pulling up her hood. Determined to find those “Little Falls,” we continued, until finally hearing the sounds of gushing water. As it turned out, the falls weren’t so little after all. The steep cascade, resembling a staircase, rose up before us, and after much rain, the waters flowed abundantly. We stood in awe, not another hiker in site, and gazed heavenward at this undisturbed natural formation.

After a while, I prompted them to pose for the camera. As I snapped the photo, a mosquito flew toward Elizabeth. When Abigail tried to brush it away, she knocked off Patrick’s hat in the process, causing laughter among us. I checked the picture. The “Little Falls” stood majestically behind them, and the sky was clear once again.

Within that moment of happy chaos was also a moment of peace, the beauty of nature around me and my family in front of me. Though not as perfectly serene as the boats in the harbor at sunrise, for me, that was what peace looked like.

“The ultimate evil in the temporal world lies in the fact that the past fades, that time is a perpetual perishing” (A.N. Whitehead).

I have now my full share of years. I’m a man of many winters and vanished summers. So much is done and gone. When I look back over my life, I have the sense of having made a long journey. I can look over a vista of the past, a landscape traveled. I have taken to looking back on my life more often.

I was born one mild and rainy day in the merry month of May—a Sunday to be exact. I’m told I was a quiet child. I had a happy childhood, except that I had been afraid of too many things. It was Shakespeare’s Constance who said she was “a woman naturally born to fears” (King John).

There are all those livedout days of long ago, when the world was sweet with promises. Looking back, I can remember images from those days. I can picture that teenager running down Bleecker Street past a row of apartment buildings, trying to catch a bus. I remember my mother waiting at the window to watch me go and return from school; the mother who lives on in me and will always be part of who I am.

I have always had a taste for solitude. The need for solitude has always been paramount with me, both in joy and in sorrow. Too many waltzes have ended, and I’ve had my times of sorrow. Happiness enough has fallen to my lot. However, my life’s timeline has a break that took a lot of inner recovery. I have never fully recovered. I learned to redefine my life, but it was never the same. The man I see looking out at me from the mirror is a handsome enough fellow, but his expression is sad.

The dead are very close to me these days; people I loved and learned from—people who loved the young man I once was. I yearn for certain beloved faces. Living witnesses of my life are increasingly few. We fade and dwindle and dissolve. “Count then your blessings, hold in mind all that have loved you and been kind.”

There’s a line from a poet in modern India, Kavi Pradeep, who writes of “the song that I came to sing.” Each of us has ben given a song to sing. I wonder what is the song that I came to sing? Gerard Manley Hopkins put it his way: “What I do is mine; for that I came.” Real happiness involves the realization that one is doing what one is supposed to be doing; and unhappiness involves waking up to the realization that one is not doing what one is supposed to be doing.

Looking back on my life brought the realization of how chance and coincidence dictated one’s history. Things might have worked out differently, other choices may have been made, other relationships developed, other opportunities acted upon. How differently things might have worked out if only a small change had occurred at any of a dozen different junctures. Why did I turn out to be the version of myself I am and not another? I viewed my life as replete with “coincidences”, “lucky breaks” and “occurrences”.

I have become convinced that there are no chances or coincidences. Everything that happens is within God’s providence. What I thought of as “coincidences,” “lucky breaks,” and “occurrences” were the result of divine interventions; grace was at work. There were certain incidents, words, replies, questions which passed as the effects of chance, but when examined, proved the presence of God. We often see God most clearly in retrospect. On reflection, I recognize that the providential goodness of God has been following me all the years of my life, and Christian hope involves not calculating the possibilities on purely human grounds. I believe that again and again, at certain moments in my life there was an experience of God, the presence of God. My journey through life was a journey in which God was present along the way. When I reflect on my life, I can sometimes say God acted there; there was God’s feathery providence.

Those black clouds on the horizon never did in fact arise.

There are all the ways grace acts in the world. There are Hopkins’ memorable words: “I greet Him the days I meet Him, and bless when I understand.” God can move in mysterious ways. One of Paul’s main doctrines is: “By the grace of God, I am what I am.” In Graham Greene’s novel Brighton Rock, there is the line: “You can’t conceive of the appalling strangeness of the mercy of God.”

At this time in my life, I no longer think of myself apart from God. There is much more thought of God, and I leave the future to God in whose love I have confidence: “I bore you up on Eagles’ wings.”

I believe that pieces of a jigsaw have fitted into place. The persons I met, the places I’ve been, the things I’ve been asked to do, etc., have all coalesced into a pattern. and I feel convinced that, as Hopkins put it: “What I do is me, for that I came.” What I’m doing, I ought to do. I’m sure many people think that way.

When he was asked what the happiest day of his life was, Napoleon Bonaparte didn’t say being crowned Emperor of France, or any of his military victories, or even his first marriage to Josephine, Viscountess of Beauharnai, not to mention his second marriage to Marie Louise, Duchess of Parma.

No. Napoleon famously proclaimed, as only an emperor can, “The most important day of my life was my First Holy Communion.” That’s a curious response from a man of ambition and power who almost ruled the whole world, who battled with the Pope, and who ultimately left his faith. Nevertheless, he realized Communion is more than a wafer…it is Jesus: Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity.

In his biography of Napoleon, Hilaire Belloc wrote, “His preparation for his First Communion he always remembered, and that day stood out for him all his life.”

Maybe all of us should prioritize what’s important in our lives. Our possessions? Our popularity? Our prestige? Or Jesus in the Eucharist? It took me a lifetime to realize the Blessed Sacrament isn’t just an important thing. It’s the most important thing.

At this time of year, young boys and girls—most of whom will never achieve the global prominence of Napoleon —receive their First Holy Communion, and that occasion should be nothing less than regal, because they’ll be receiving the King of the Universe in the Blessed Sacrament.

Decades ago, when my oldest daughter was preparing for her First Holy Communion, it was such a momentous occasion that my father was coming to church for the first time in 50 years.

I wanted to be as discreet as possible, but I can only describe it as mayhem, sort of like the first 75 shoppers rushing into Walmart on Black Friday to get a $100 flat screen TV. There was none of the reverence and piety that the good sisters drilled into us decades before, when we knelt at the altar railing and raised our heads to have Jesus put on our tongues.

I’m not suggesting that you need to kneel and receive on your tongue; however, at my daughter’s liturgy, when the priest called the kids to come forward, they rushed the altar like fans at a Taylor Swift concert. Then, they took Communion in their hands and ran back to their seats with it.

I still painfully recall one boy looking at the Blessed Sacrament between his fingers and chortling, “It looks like a potato chip!”

What troubled me most of all was my father’s reaction to this free-for-all. The guy hadn’t gone to church in decades, but even he realized something was wrong. He shook his head and muttered, “This isn’t right.”

That was 35 years ago, and I like to think a new day has dawned.

There will never be true reverence for the Blessed Sacrament and there will never be belief in the Real Presence if we don’t teach our kids these eternal truths. We have to teach it everywhere—in our homes, in our CCD classes, in our parishes, in our Catholic schools and especially in our Catholic colleges.

We have a long way to go when you consider that twothirds of Catholics don’t believe that Jesus is really and truly present in the Eucharist, even though there’s ample scientific evidence to demonstrate that teaching of our faith.

Take time to examine the evidence. Explore the exhibit of Eucharistic miracles created by Bl. Carlo Acutis, titled, “The Eucharistic Miracles of the World.” Or watch the captivating talk by Father Chris Alar, MIC, titled “Eucharistic Miracles: The Scientific Proof.” You’ll understand why they say the Eucharist is “the summit and source of our Christian life.”

Napoleon may have understood worldly power, but not the power of God.

“There are no limitations to Christ’s power, as God, which he exercises through his humanity in the Eucharist,” Servant of God John Hardon, SJ, once said. “The only limitation is our own weakness of faith or lack of confidence in his almighty love.”

At the end of his life, Napoleon was exiled to the island of St. Helena. All his temporal power was gone. He died, lonely and defeated, at 51. At the time of his greatest crisis, he should have turned to the Eucharist, as we all should.

Emperors, kings and presidents come and go, but Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament is forever.

My mother-in-law turned 87 this month, and when my husband asked how she would like to celebrate, her answer was simple: “For the family to be together.”

So, one recent Sunday afternoon, we gathered around her small kitchen table, elbows bumping, and enjoyed carrot cake and reminiscing. “What else does someone need who’s lived this long?” she said. Maybe a new purse for the spring, but she really wanted the gift of our time.

When I dropped off the mail the other night to an elderly neighbor who had been away, we chatted for a moment about his vacation before I said, “Have a nice evening!” As I reached for the door handle, he asked, “Oh, can you stay for tea?” The dishes were still in the sink and my plants needed watering, but I paused and settled down for a cup of chai. Though anxious to flip through the mail, he really wanted the gift of my time.

My younger daughter’s 17th birthday is coming up. When her godmother asked what she could get her, Elizabeth barely hesitated. “Let’s just go out to lunch. I have so much to tell you!” she said. And that’s the plan—lunch at a favorite café and surely lots of stories and laughter. Even at 17, when clothes and gift cards may also be on her list, Elizabeth really wants the gift of her time.

At the conclusion of Mass last week, after announcements about the raffle and parish picnic, our priest reminded the congregation to visit the Adoration chapel whenever possible.

“Come spend an hour with the Lord. When we give of ourselves, there is great satisfaction,” he said. “And what better gift to give him than just a little bit of your time?”

Though these circumstances couldn’t be more different, what is desired is so similar, so simple—a chance to share in the undivided attention of a loved one.

I have always heard that few people remember specific gifts given throughout the years, but time spent with others is never forgotten and certainly never wasted. When the pressure to give the perfect material gift or the excuse of having so much else to do is removed, we realize there is little more precious than time, especially in a world when there never seems to be enough of it. And being together to show our gratitude and friendship is surely the most meaningful.

I have long understood the importance—and joy—of sharing nothing more than an afternoon chat, a cup of tea, or a favorite memory with those I love, though I didn’t consider these experiences like time in Adoration. When I have sat in that chapel kneeling before the Blessed Sacrament or prayed quietly alone at home, I treated it more as Jesus’ gift to me rather than my gift to him. It works both ways, however, for any giver and any recipient can benefit from time spent together.

Eventually, those visits with others must be put on hold, though Jesus, as the very best listener, will allow me yet another cup of chai.

Western culture has become increasingly secular. The spirit of our age seems to involve the denial of transcendence. Many consider the development of atheism as a sign of progress.

There is the growing number of self-confessed atheists. According to a 2008 survey, only two percent of the U.S. population was atheist, while 10 percent were agnostic. In 2018, it was estimated that 26 percent of Americans were atheists. This was much higher than the three-to-11 percent rates that were consistently found in surveys.

There is the New England Skeptical Society made up of Humanists and Freethinkers of Fairfield County. This society hosts a virtual event titled “The Skeptic’s Guide to the Universe.” The Italian Catholic Bishops Conference concluded that 30 percent of the Italian population is atheist – around 18 million people.

More college students are calling themselves atheists. Nonreligious identity has become increasingly important to many (“nones”). At Harvard University, there is the “Harvard Humanist Chaplaincy”. The young have been invited to imagine, with John Lennon, the positive effects of a world with “no religion.” In the academic world, the working assumptions seems to be that every serious person is an atheist. There are atheist websites, blogs, journals, conferences that provide a network of support for atheists.

One cannot deny that atheists can live fulfilling lives that are meaningful and happy. The Catholic theologian Karl Rahner was sympathetic to contemporary atheism. Atheists deserve to be taken seriously. Atheists I know describe themselves as trying to salvage the best that life has to offer right now. They claim that this life is quite enough to give their lives meaning as well as intellectual satisfaction. They settle into a comfortable unbelief. Many see their atheistic lifestyle as something that can contribute to a better world.

The “New Atheists” (e.g. Dawkins, Harris, Hitchens) would have Judaism, Christianity, and Islam simply disappear, after which we should be able to go on enjoying the same lifestyle as before, only without the nuisance of suicide bombers and TV evangelists, without worrying about getting blown up by God-inspired fanatics. They compare God to belief in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.

The Second Vatican Council stated “believers can have more than a little to do with the birth of atheism. To the extent that they neglect their learning and growing in the faith and the Scriptures they must be said to conceal rather than reveal the authentic face of God and religion” (Gaudium et Spes 19-21). It’s true—most criticisms of religion are of immature religion.

My own thinking about atheism involves some basic questions: How and why did the big bang start? How and why can something come from nothing? How and why did the constants of the universe arise to create the perfect conditions for human life? How and why did consciousness evolve from which we have purpose and meaning?

For me, the big questions are: What is it all about? Why are we here? Who are we? Why is there a world?

Atheists commonly respond by telling how the universe is old enough to have allowed chance and physical laws ample time to experiment with different chemical and environmental combinations. There have been billions of years of evolution.

The claim is made that truth can be attained only by science. Atheists in general insist that only what can be measured is real. Science alone can give a reliable knowledge of reality. The late Carl Sagan insisted that modern science would engender the same awe as religious faith.

Science can say a lot, but it can’t say everything. There are channels other than science through which we experience and understand the world. There are works of art, literature, music, philosophy and theology—dimensions of reality that science can’t reach. There are a couple of other problems I have with atheistic claims. For example, atheists avoid the idea of creation by claiming that the universe is eternal. That would imply that there would have occurred in the past an infinite number of events, and the number of future events is potentially infinite. I have trouble with the concept of beginningless time.

A few other thoughts: One can marvel at the eye’s capacity for vision, how many different sorts of parts the eye has and how precisely their functions must be coordinated to produce vision. This is repeated in organ after organ. To me, this points to the hypothesis of a supernatural architect who arranges things by an enormous intelligence. Overall, I think God is the animating force of the entire evolutionary process. There is an incomprehensible power with limitless knowledge that started the whole universe going in the first place.

I do think that, to some extent, many people become atheists so they don’t have to worry about pleasing and being judged by God.

Atheists claim that only evolutionary biology can provide an account of why people are religious. I think that so many people are religious because God has structured our nature towards himself. This world on its own is not enough to satisfy the human hunger for meaning and happiness. Human beings are ultimately understood in relation to God. Augustine was right: “You have made us for Yourself O Lord, and our hearts are ever restless until they rest in Thee.” There is a gravitational pull towards God.

The Protestant theologian Karl Barth said that atheism is a ridiculous invention. Sometimes I have a sense of what he meant. People act as if humans were alone, as if their deeds were carried out in the dark, as if there were no God Who saw, no God Who knew.

Shortly before his death, in the spring of 1980, the hard-core atheist Jean-Paul Sartre made a startling disclosure: “I do not feel that I am the product of chance, a speck of dust in the universe, but someone who was expected, prepared, prefigured. In short, a being whom only a Creator could put here: and this idea of a creating hand refers to God.” (Is Man the Measure? An evaluation of contemporary humanism, Norman Geisler, Baker, 1983, p. 46-47.)

The 19th-century mathematician, Bernhard Riemann, once said: “I did not invent those pairs of differential equations. I found them in the world, where God had hidden them.”

Finally, there’s St. Paul’s interesting statement: “God has made the whole world prisoner of unbelief that he may have mercy on all.”

I’ve developed a new style of prayer. You might call it “ad hoc” prayer or “spur of the moment” prayer, because it comes and goes as the occasion requires or, more accurately, as the Holy Spirit moves me.

Let me tell you a story. I was leaving the Italian restaurant with my take-out order of a large pepperoni pizza, gluten-free penne with Bolognese sauce, chicken milanese and a side order of broccoli rabe—so much stuff they had to pack it in a large box. On my way out, I passed a fellow coming in the double doors.

He was dressed in a leather Harley motorcycle jacket with assorted accessories, and when he saw me, he came back and held both doors for me. It was an unexpected random act of kindness. (Don’t you love them? And don’t you just hate when someone lets the door slam in your face?)

“Thank you,” I said, immediately realizing it deserved more than a mere thank you. Of course, I couldn’t tip him because that would have been inappropriate. Sometimes all you can do is say thank you. But sometimes the occasion requires more than a thank you. It requires a grander gesture of gratitude … like prayer.

So I uttered the first prayer that came to mind: “Lord, may I meet this guy in heaven someday, along with his family and friends … if that’s not asking too much.” Of course, when it comes to someone’s salvation, it’s never asking too much for Jesus.

Lately, I’ve been constantly petitioning him, when I’m on the street, on the train, in the supermarket, at the gas station, in the bank, at the stoplight—whenever my path crosses with someone in need or someone who’s shown kindness. That’s when I’ll say, “Jesus, help him please.” Or “Jesus, help her please.” Or “May we meet in heaven.”

I realize Jesus isn’t my personal assistant, but that doesn’t stop me from petitioning him as often as possible for strangers, in addition to their family members and friends, for good measure.

I have the feeling that Jesus wants us to pray for the conversion and salvation of strangers because he really wants to see them all in heaven someday, and he’ll do anything to get them there. His sacrifice for our salvation was so great that he doesn’t want anyone left out.

While he was on Earth, Jesus was always reaching out to strangers, or they were reaching out to him. Remember the Samaritan woman at the well, the SyroPhoenician woman whose daughter was possessed, Zacchaeus, the little tax collector in the sycamore tree, and the blind man at the pool, not to mention the woman caught in adultery?

Jesus looked on the periphery for those who needed help and who very often didn’t even realize they needed help. There’s a lot of people like that today, who think they don’t need a Savior because they’re convinced they have all the answers. That can be a very destructive attitude when it comes to our spiritual lives.

Always try to pray every day for people who may have no one to pray for them. Your simple prayers could very well be the difference between their getting into heaven and not.

I have a suspicion that when we arrive in heaven, we’ll be absolutely amazed at the number of people who are there because we took a moment to say a prayer for them. We probably won’t even remember that we said a prayer. Although we may forget, Jesus never does. He will have answered all our prayers and done a lot of heavy heavenly lifting to get them through the gates. I recently read an anonymous quote that said, “If you are praying about it, God is already working on it.”

So be generous with your prayers. Keep them short and sweet, as my father would say, and spread them around generously like the sower in the field.

All you have to say is “Lord, help them please.” As short as that is, if it’s sincere, it’s enough. Share the spiritual wealth. There are a lot of strangers out there who don’t even know what prayer is and who could use a few, especially when they least expect it.

Many years ago, a little girl sat with her parents, her grandmother, and her baby brother in the front pew of a church on Easter Sunday. Too young to understand the profound significance of the day or the importance of the readings, she focused on the flowers adorning the altar. “Aren’t they pretty?” her mother whispered. “Those are tulips, and that’s an Easter lily, and there’s a—”

“A lily?” the little girl interrupted, a bit too loudly. “Like Lilly?” As the story goes, she turned toward her grandmother, whose name was Lillian, and gave her a quick hug. From that day forward, the little girl’s grandmother was never known as “Grandma” or “Nana” to her grandchildren, but simply “Lilly,” in honor of the beautiful Easter flower.

As that little girl, I have no memory of this morning or the realization I made during Mass, though my mother’s frequent retelling of the story has embedded the images and the dialogue in my mind. I adored my grandmother, as any little girl would, and always connected her with Easter, from that morning when I was only two, until the day she died—frail and delicate like the flower itself. Even today, decades later, when I see the lilies appearing at the florist before Easter and take in their sweet scent, I am reminded of Lilly and the story that is as familiar to me as the flowers themselves.

In addition to the beauty of Easter and the glory of the celebration, it is also the beauty of consistency that I love about this day—the unchanging Gospel readings of Jesus’ resurrection, the traditional music prompting us to “rejoice and be glad,” and yes, the flowers, with those large, trumpet-shaped lilies in the center of every display. In a season when we focus on what is new in a religious, secular, and natural sense, sometimes we are drawn to what we know best.

Last week, following Easter Sunday, with spring break upon us and the world suddenly radiant in every shade of green, we drove down to Maryland for a few days to visit old friends. After walking through bustling Baltimore, we came upon a small church with its doors slightly ajar, beckoning us in. Though miles from home, in a city and a state that I did not know well, I was nevertheless surrounded by the familiar as we quietly entered. The brilliant stained glass, the 14 Stations, and the large wooden crucifix greeted us. And, being the Wednesday after Easter, the display of lilies still adorned the altar.

Like that child of yesteryear, I am drawn to “consider the lilies of the field, how they grow” as Scripture advises us, drawn to both the powerful association with Easter and the loving association with my grandmother, which to me were always intertwined. As we sat for a few moments of silence in the front pew of that little chapel, the story of a little girl and her grandmother came alive for me once again.

“My dwelling, like a shepherd’s tent is struck down and borne away from me; You have folded up my life, like a weaver who cuts off the last thread” (Isaiah 38:11-12). I long dreaded these words, and prayed God to permit the thread to continue spinning.

I grew to love it here and thought the world radiated a stream of things that were bright and beautiful and alive. There was much to enjoy in this world. At many times in my life, I’ve had exhilarating feelings of life. I could be in wonder at the daily miracles of life: the light of a new day, a simple meal, watching the day slowly turn into evening. There was a kind of delight in being a human being.

Time taught me that life was not always benign. As Psalm 116 put it, “They caught me, sorrow and distress.” Trouble can always find us. Life is not always gentle. The world does bad things to us all. I had to wonder, is it the sort of life I would want to go on indefinitely? We are all preys to time, and everybody learns how awful the world can be.

According to St. Augustine, life is both a grace and a crippling burden. Life often ceases to be a joy and becomes an affliction. There are the infirmities, the protracted illnesses, the humiliating failure of the flesh that belong to the long process of aging. Life ceases to be a joy and becomes a burden. The world we once trusted hurts us. We become men and women “of sorrow and acquainted with grief” (Isaiah 53:3). They are part of the package.

As I see it, the elderly generally grow lonely and tired, crushed by the separations and sorrows of life. They can give you a list of all whom they have loved and lost. There is so much loneliness in living, so much unredeemable loss. Many find themselves alone like Elijah under a broom tree saying to God “it is enough” (“sufficit” in Latin), now, O Lord, take my life” (1 Kgs. 19:4). People are haunted periodically by the thought that keeping on is not worth the struggle. Elderly people generally don’t put up much of a fuss about dying, and death usually gentles them out the door.

I sometimes wonder how I will do at dying. I hope to go off quietly—no doctors, no hospitals, no fear, no pain, giving as little trouble as possible—an “easeful death” as Keats called it (Ode to a Nightingale). Here are some comforting expressions about dying by some famous people:

“I thought dying was harder” (Louis XIV).

“It is so simple to die” (Carl Schurz, French dramatist, died 1660).

“Is this dying, is this all? Is this what I feared? Oh, I can bear this, I can bear this” (Cotton Mather, American Puritan preacher, died 1728).

“I’m not afraid to die, honey. In fact, I’m kind of looking forward to it” (Ethel Waters, American blues singer, died 1977).

“My work is done” (John Stuart Mill).

I’m comforted by a common scene depicted in the burial chambers in the catacombs of Callistus, in Rome. Seven youths are pictured gathered around a table, enjoying a convivial meal. The table is laden with two platters of fish. Seven large baskets brimming with loaves of bread stand on the floor beside the table. There is a flask of wine.

Early Christians held meals on the anniversary of a loved one’s death. These banquets were considered illustrating and parallel to the heavenly banquets the deceased person was enjoying in Paradise. The moral is that for all eternity the deceased will rejoice, never to know sorrow again, “and the days of your mourning shall come to an end” (Antiphon, morning prayer, Tuesday, week II of Advent).

I believe in the Resurrection of the dead. The Almighty Creator who called things from nothingness into being can also call humans from death into incorruptible life (Rom.4:17).

I believe death is the doorway to reunion with loved ones. The ties of love and affection which knots us as one throughout our lives do not unravel with death.

I hope to meet with God’s “well done.” And I will experience gratitude for the grandeur and vitality of my human life. I will give God thanks for the road I travelled, thank him for “my story.”

I’ll end with two stories of death-bed experiences in which I was involved. One involved a lady I knew for many years. There was silence for a long time. I held her hand. Eventually she said “I guess I’m going to leave.” I said “I know.” With a slight smile she said “I never died before.” I said, “I know.” In a whisper she said “I think we’ll make it. Tom.” Then she said “I want to pray a bit.” She whispered “My Father, take me home because of Jesus, and Father, take care of this good guy here. He has given me love, and he has been my friend. Amen.”

The second death-bed story involved a man I knew since high school. With his final words he said not “good-bye” but “forgive me.” It was the most profound good-bye I ever heard.

I’ve already made plans for when I get to Heaven— even though I’m not sure when that will be because these things can take time. Nevertheless, there are a few people I want to meet, so I’m penciling them in on my calendar.

Sure, there’s God and Jesus and the Blessed Mother, not to mention St. Joseph and my guardian angel, who’s done a lot of heavy lifting, with more to go.

I also want to give a shout-out to some saints who’ve helped me along the way, like St. Jose Sanchez del Rio, St. Margaret of Castello, St. Josephine Bakhita, St. Ann and St. Joachim, Servant of God Chiara Corbella Petrillo, and St. Joseph Barsabbas.  He’s the guy who didn’t get the job when the Apostles had to fill the opening left by Judas. We certainly can all relate to the guy who didn’t get the job.

Let me not forget St. Martha, who’s one of my favorites. All my life, I’ve lived with Marthas. Even though it’s been a bit annoying, they always step up to the plate when there’s work to be done.

Who can’t love Martha? When her brother Lazarus was sick, she sent word to the Lord, and after he died, she went out to meet Jesus as he approached Bethany. She told him: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that whatever you ask, God will give you.” All of us need a saint like that on our side.

When I get to Heaven, I also look forward to meeting people we hear about but know so little about. I’d love to sit down with them and talk about life, and the afterlife over a latte, assuming they serve lattes in Heaven.

I really want to meet the Syrophoenician woman whose daughter was possessed by an unclean spirit. St. Mark tells us that she fell at Jesus’ feet and begged him to help, but he rebuffed her and said, “It’s not right to take the food of the children and throw it to the dogs.” Hearing that, anyone else would have crept away, but she came right back at Jesus with her famous retort: “Lord, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s scraps.”

The Gospel writers tell us that Jesus wept, but they never say Jesus smiled. I’m convinced he smiled that day when he told her, “For saying this, you may go. The demon has gone out of your daughter.”

I’d also like to meet the woman who was hemorrhaging for 12 years and gave all her money to doctors, who couldn’t cure her. She pushed her way through the crowd to get close to Jesus so she could touch his tunic, thinking, “If I but touch his clothes, I shall be cured.” She did and the flow of blood stopped … and then mayhem erupted.

“Jesus, aware at once that power had gone out from him, turned around in the crowd and asked, ‘Who has touched my clothes?’ But Peter said to him, ‘You see how the crowd is pressing upon you, and you ask, ‘Who touched me?’”

Jesus looked around, and the woman realized she’d been exposed. “She approached in fear and trembling,” the Gospel says. “Then, she fell down before Jesus and told him the whole truth.”

“Daughter, your faith has saved you,” he said. “Go in peace and be cured of your affliction.” I suspect he smiled again.

I’m also making plans to enjoy a cappuccino with the Good Thief (I’ll buy). The Good Thief was there during Jesus’ darkest hour, when he felt abandoned and was reviled as he hung on the cross between two criminals.

The Good Thief rebuked the other, who was cursing Jesus and saying, “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!”

But the Good Thief told him: “ Have you no fear of God, for you are subject to the same condemnation? We have been condemned justly … but this man has done nothing criminal.”

Then, he said the words that gained him Heaven: “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

Jesus uttered a reply that will be remembered for all eternity: Amen, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”

All of them were people whose lives went from ordinary to extraordinary when they encountered the Son of Man … who also happened to be the Son of God.

Jesus, remember us when you come into your kingdom.

Refresh. Renew. Reflect. Umm, rebirth! What about revive? Return? Redo. I bet you didn’t get this one—redeem!”

Whoever thought that ninth graders could become so competitive over a grammar lesson about prefixes? I scrambled to keep up with them, writing each re- verb on the board and finally pausing after that very enthusiastic “redeem.”

Most of them probably didn’t realize it, but as they brainstormed these words, they managed to create a roll call of Lenten themes.

These 14-year-olds certainly understand the power of making something better and of starting again. I often hear them say, “Would you let me revise my last essay so I can improve it?” “Can you repeat the directions?” “I’m going to redo the assignment after school.” There seems to be an infinite desire for another chance, and not only for high schoolers. How nice it is to refresh with a cold drink on a summer day or recall a memory from childhood, to restore an old photograph or renew a wedding vow. The act of doing over and coming back offers us a unique opportunity for a new start.

Now, in the midst of Lent, I think of the times this season I have followed through on all those verbs my students tossed out—and the times I haven’t. My older daughter, a college freshman, encouraged me to join her in reading the Lenten reflections that her school emails each morning. I started off strong, spending time during the week after Ash Wednesday enjoying passages before the busyness of the day began. We shared our thoughts later on through a quick text or phone call, but then, as sometimes happens, I missed one, and then another, and so did she, preoccupied by worldly distractions. Soon a week had gone by. Frustrated, I then realized that I just had to start again. Like my students, I needed to “redo my assignment.”

And the first passage I read the next day could not have been more fitting, one from Isaiah that ended with “Return to me, for I have redeemed you.”

With God, there seems no limit to the opportunities he gives us to rebuild and restart, and I feel that so often during Lent. Though I missed out on those days of reflection, he invited me back, aptly saying, “Return to me.”

Though my students make mistakes, they see an opportunity to do better. For us Catholics, that message is compelling, applicable to our relationship with God during Lent and to all segments of our lives throughout the year.

Just as I was finishing this piece, I received an email from a student who had been struggling over the winter and had fallen behind.

“Spring’s rolling around, soon flowers will be blooming,” she wrote. “New beginnings I guess. I’m excited. See you tomorrow.”

With spring indeed upon us and Easter approaching, I remind myself to reflect and revise, keeping in mind the power of that little prefix and knowing Jesus’ resurrection gives us all the chance to start anew.

Who among you delights in life?” (Psalm 34:12).

In the Declaration of Independence, the Founders of our country boldly stated that everyone possessed the inalienable right to the pursuit of happiness. We have an inalienable right to be happy.

Happiness is an active area of research, and what has been discovered may surprise you. For example, all established writers who speak of happiness conclude that happiness doesn’t last. They come to see happiness as perilously fragile.

One finds statements like: “I do not believe that any human being can be really happy for long; True happiness comes and goes” or “I don’t think happiness is a lasting thing. I think it’s moments.” Alice McDermott (author of The Ninth Hour) stated that “All happiness is thin ice.” There’s a Chinese proverb that states “We are never happy for a thousand days; flowers bloom for a hundred.” Sigmund Freud, the father of Psychoanalysis, concluded that “nothing can keep us steadfastly happy, we can experience happiness only for brief periods of time.” Freud went so far as to state that “one feels inclined to say that the intention that man should be happy is not included in the plan of creation.” Aristotle said that happiness is like a butterfly which appears and makes us happy for a time, but soon flies away.

Here’s a number of ways people define happiness, answer the question what does it mean to be happy? These are some definitions I relate to:

Thomas Aquinas said that making others happy is the best Happiness. Happiness may be defined as the certainty of being needed. Happiness involves the absence of worry. Happiness is when your plans are going well.

The ancient Greek definition of happiness was to develop one’s powers to achieve excellence in the performance of skilled work, and then have one’s contributions recognized and you take enormous pride in work well done. This implies that happiness takes energy and discipline.

There are many other definitions of happiness.

Friendship is a chief source of happiness. I often asked my classes at Sacred Heart whether or not they thought the people around them were happy. Invariably they answered no. They typically spoke about the lack of meaningful relationships. Everyone around them seemed to be consumed with their success, and fame and fortune.

An interesting question is: what time of life was among your happiest? My young years were among my happiest. I was an excited and happy boy. On summer mornings I couldn’t wait to get out of bed and start going for the day. I used to waken with a burst of joy. And at night I hated to have to sleep again. How I remember the jubilation of the last day of school. All the happiness behind me. Many people locate their happiest days in the past. When I asked a friend what was his advice for a happy life, he said “Don’t grow up.”

Plenty of research bears out something I’m personally convinced of- namely that happiness generally will not be sensational, but filled with small delights. The truly happy person is one who realizes the happiness of the moment, savors the simple joys of daily life, finds happiness in passing moments. This is the teaching of the Biblical Book of Ecclesiastes. Qoheleth (the Teacher) concludes that true happiness is not possible except in brief snatches that should be treasured as gifts from God. Eccl. 5:17: “Here is what I recognize as good; it is well for a man to eat and drink and enjoy all the fruits of his labor under the sun during the limited days of the life which God gives him; for this is his lot.” These words run like a refrain throughout the book. True happiness lies with the small, the expected, the familiar. How little we actually need in order to be happy. The columnist Andy Rooney wrote: “Life is best when it is filled with small pleasures. The big ones don’t last.” There are the daily quiet joys, the small, the expected, the familiar. We find happiness in passing moments.

Here’s one of my moments. It was dusk and I was pulling my younger sister on her sled. There were kindly lights from neighboring houses. I can still hear my sister’s laughter. I felt so wonderfully alive.

When it comes to happiness, one size does not fit all. We are not specifically happy like everybody else. It must be in our own way. People experience happiness in different ways. For me, happiness involves the books, the recliner, the occasional hot tea, and the sound of rain in the background.

Happiness is primarily an inner state, an inner achievement. Marcus Aurelius (the last Good Emperor of Rome, reign 161- 180 AD) wrote “to live happily is an inward power of the soul.” Abraham Lincoln said: “Most folks are about as happy they make up their mind to be.”

God alone can make us truly happy. Life apart from God lacks genuine joy, and no amount of self-indulgence can be a substitute. C.S. Lewis asserted that the primary purpose of our lives in this world is to establish a relationship with God who placed us here. Until that relationship is established, all our attempts to attain happiness will fall short, that certain longing will never be satisfied. Obedience to the will of God makes someone happy. To seek God brings happiness. It is for this we were called into being. The human soul is drawn to God. True satisfaction is found in spiritual things. There’s the famous statement by Graham Greene, “he knew now that at the end there was only one thing that counted—to be a saint.” (The Power and Glory, p. 210)

Finally, I’m afraid it’s true that we can’t have happiness without sorrow; they are inseparable.

Luke 6:21: “Blessed are you who weep now, you shall laugh.”

My new friend Ann tells me a joke every time I see her, and at 95, she could do standup comedy. She’s always rushing off to some adventure, including the exercise class she leads at the Senior Center. She’s perpetually upbeat, and I often wonder where all that smiling, laughter and cheer come from. Whenever I see her, I’m convinced that getting older might not be so bad after all.

Before Mass, while I was sitting in the pew, saying my prayers, she walked up behind me, handed me a paper bag and said, “This is for you.”

It was a vintage cribbage board that she and her late husband played on. She knew I collected cribbage boards and wanted me to have it.

At Christmas, she wrote me an email that said, “So, my friend, I always like to say I met five new people that I really like in 2022 and you are on the list. I hope I can replace the ones I lost during 2022 with five new friends. … Keep it simple. Ms. Ann.”

What a great goal for the new year—meeting new friends. I admit I’m not good at that. Rather than socialize, I prefer to hide in my bedroom, lock the door and sit in solitude, reading a book and listening to music.

For me, meeting new people is work. Nevertheless, Ann insists it’s something I have to do, and whenever she sees me, she interrogates me about people I’ve met who’ve brought meaning to my life.

People I’ve met? Hmmm, let me think. Well, there was the pharmacist at CVS who gave me my flu shot. Nice guy, but I won’t see him again until next year. Then, there was the young woman at Quest who drew blood for my cholesterol test. (I don’t want to see the results.) We had a great discussion about her new Apple Watch, and she explained how the last one got ruined because she wore it when she went swimming.

Then, there was the woman whose grandson was diagnosed with leukemia and the woman whose marriage was falling apart because her husband is addicted to drugs. I’ve been praying for them ever since I met them. Never underestimate the power of your prayers for a person in pain.

Despite my antisocial tendencies, I’m sure of one thing. Every day God puts people in our path we’re supposed to meet. They’re people we may not even want to meet. They’re people we meet for reasons Jesus will explain when we see him in heaven and he pulls the curtain back on our lives. They’re people who need us, they’re people we need … and they’re people we’re supposed to help, sometimes without even realizing it.

They come in all shapes, sizes, colors—and temperaments. I often think that it would be wonderful if I only met people who think I’m a nice guy, an inspiring writer, an engaging professor and a great conversationalist. Fat chance of that happening. I’ve met people who think I’m a fraud—and I’m not discounting that possibility.

I’ve met people who didn’t like me as soon as I introduced myself. I’ve met students who think I cheated them out of an A when I gave them a B, even though they deserved a C. And, sad to say, I’ve met people who are so overcome with anger that they project all their negativity on everyone else because they’re hurting inside from a painful past. Some of them are hurting because they’ve been betrayed in marriage, others are hurting because their children neglect them. And still others are angry with God because someone they loved died.

Be prepared for the people Jesus puts in your path.

If you’re committed to doing God’s will, you can be sure you’ll meet new people. Doing his will always comes with a Things to Do list, and every day he’ll tell you what you need to do. Ann was right. As much as I’d like to stay sequestered in my room, there are places to go, people to meet, as the song says.

Jesus sends them to us for a reason, so when they cross your path, keep an open mind and look beyond the exterior. You have friends you haven’t even met yet.

On the morning of December 31, I took down our family calendar from the past year and tacked up a new one, running my hand over the clean surface with only the 31 numbers of January printed in bold. It begged to fill—with appointments, activities, birthdays, and plans. At the moment though, I just wanted to absorb its possibility, the newness and fresh start we hope each year will bring, part of which usually consists of a resolution or two.

I was never much for those new year’s resolutions. It’s not that I didn’t think my life needed improvement. Over the years, I’ve made collective goals with friends and family to exercise more or visit more often and personal goals to get more sleep or stay more organized. Though I’m game for trying something new, the pressure to always do “more” hung over me, ready to fizzle out soon after I began. I hated to say, “why bother?” but such resolutions rarely endured on the daily or weekly basis as I hoped they would. There was never a concrete reason why. I guess I’d become distracted, complacent, too busy, too overwhelmed— just like many others. The motivation I felt for that resolution on the first of the month was not always sustainable on the 31st. Oh, well. Maybe next year, I’d think.

Now I wonder how many “next years” there have been.

That evening, after I put up the calendar, as we listened to our priest’s homily at the New Year’s vigil, he had resolutions in mind as well. His advice? A single word.

“Try,” he said. “Try to make a renewed commitment to faith. Try to see the grace in others and be the light for those in darkness.”

Try. Yes, that I could do.

Not only was his advice meaningful, but it also took the pressure off. Though making such a commitment was very personal, it was not about what we could do for ourselves but what we could do for others—and for God. Placing him at the center of a resolution shifted my focus and showed me that this was not a goal with a tangible outcome nor one for which I could measure success—at least in a traditional way. This was not something I could tally up like the extra mile on an afternoon run or how much more organized the kitchen cabinets were. But it wasn’t mine to tally anyway, and this renewed commitment wasn’t a resolution set aside only for the new year. It’s one I could make every day. All I had to do was try, and I knew I’d see the opportunities God had for me.

That was my attitude as I went out the following morning. Leaving the grocery store, arms weighted down with bags, I hesitated in the parking lot until a stranger smiled and waved me on. I delighted in the simple kindness of another, for maybe she had made a “renewed commitment” that day too, a sustainable one that would not fizzle out.

Oh, the joyful possibility of a new year.

While gentile silence enveloped all things and the night was in the midst of her course, your almighty Word leapt down from heaven, from your royal throne (Wisdom 18:14).

Shortly after a Christmas day, John Updike wrote, “I experienced happiness so sharply I tried to factor it into compartments. The first cause of the happiness was that the Christmas season was over—the presents, the parties— and that was a relief.”

For many people, it is a relief when the Christmas season is over. One can hear people complain that Christmas was too commercial. Christmas had become one big advertising campaign. Unbelievers use it to make money. There’s the crowds of shoppers, the piped in Christmas music, the necessity of finding presents and wrapping and sending them, the lines at the post offices.

Christmas, for some, is a season to be endured. People speak of needing a holiday from the holiday. A friend of mine speaks of “the tyrannical holiday,” and points out that the suicide rate is especially high at Christmas.

The Catholic League is troubled by Wal-Mart’s aversion to the word “Christmas” and by how nativity scenes are kept out of sight so that no one is offended. I never go to Wal-Mart or Costco looking for religion. I do hope to hear offered from the pulpit something more satisfying than the annual lament about “the secularizing of Christmas.”

The magic of Christmas remains. There are the abiding themes of Christmas. Christmas is a feast of joy and hope. Into this world of fear and worry, among people with their troubles, comes the proclamation of great jo —“To you is born this day a savior” (Lk. 2:11). The first words proclaimed by the angels are “Do not be afraid” (Lk. 2:10).

The time is fulfilled, and in the 15th year of the reign of Tiberius Caesar (Lk. 3:1), eternity enters into time. In the baby of the manger, we see our God made visible. God Almighty, the Eternal One, Creator of heaven and earth, takes on humanity, becomes a tiny infant cared for by two poor and simple people. The All-Powerful one takes on new life with hands and feet, eyes and ears, blood, nerves and bones, fingernails and lungs. God pursues us into our time and into our flesh. Dante speaks of “the love that moves the sun and the stars.”

God tries to arouse in us a feeling of trust and confidence in him. The famous theologian Karl Rahner speaks of Christmas as the time when God tries to press his love upon us as persuasively as he can. He asks us not to be afraid of him. H does not desire to hurt us. He comes to us as this helpless child. He is a God of pity dwelling amid our sorrows and labors. St. Therese asked, “How could anyone be afraid of a God who becomes a child?”

The gift of time is perhaps the most important gift we get and give. The true gift of the Magi was not the myrrh and frankincense and gold, but the time and trouble they took to bring them.

The modern-day equivalent is the hours spent in crowded stores finding presents, the care and effort it takes for wrapping and sending presents, the time spent at the post office. When one thinks about it, all these are appreciated as much as the gift itself. They are an expression of affection and esteem. And there’s the simple fact of being remembered, the affection that presents symbolize.

Our feast of Christmas was set to coincide with the winter solstice. In these shortest, darkest days of the year, the sun turns its course, climbs the sky again, and daylight begins to lengthen into another spring and summer. Christmas is about the coming of the light into our darkness: “Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting light.” At Christmas time, I love to drive on night roads and see a single candle in the window of a house. How mellow and inviting the candle looks. The light seems to have warmth and feeling: “The winter’s night that was so deep, when the world in solemn stillness lay.”

For many, Christmas is a memory of other days. Indeed, Christmas time is a special hell for those who have suffered the loss of an especially dear one. Christmas is our time to be aware of what we lack, of who’s not at home. We are surrounded by the reminiscences of Christmases past. Memories of the dead person pervade our minds and hearts. We ache for the one no longer with us. Jolly Christmas often isn’t jolly.

For many people the Christmas of their childhood has vanished. The circle of their childhood family is gone by death and scattered by distance. There are those who sit cheerless and alone on Christmas, thinking of better times and remembering the faces of those who are dead.

May something be born in each of us this Christmas. May we all; experience a birth of hope. As Titus 3:4 puts it, may we recognize it as a time “when the goodness and loving kindness of God our Savior appeared.”

May we sense the confidence and joy that shines from the manger. At the heart of reality is mercy. May Christmas revive us. Let us try our best to express our love, to grow closer. May there be an upsurge of friendship.

Let us all have fun this Christmas day,
Let’s play and sing and shout hooray.