Please excuse this interruption to our hiatus for a brief essay. This week at the school where I teach, we are asked to explain to our students what our relationship with God is like– it’s a topic that has been on my mind for a very long time and one that I’ve struggled to put into words. I tried to approach the topic from this starting point: Why do I believe?

That question is remarkably simple, but remarkably hard to answer. After much thought, writing and prayerful rewriting, here is my answer.

*****

From the time I was 17 until my early 20s, I was I was practically an atheist. Not in specific terms—I don’t think that I ever actually said that God didn’t exist, but I was so disinterested in Him that I thought and lived as if He didn’t exist. I was spiritually dead and didn’t have any confidence that God was real—if He did exist, then I was pretty sure that he didn’t care about me.

I remember a class project one day where we had to interview 3 people about the meaning of life. The answers I got were the generic kind, like “the point of life is to be happy and to encourage happiness in others.” I thought this was so profound and wise before I learned it was actually shallow—and in another sense, lonely.

But if God isn’t real, then that’s all that life is about: the base pleasures that we think bring happiness—and allow us to focus inwardly on ourselves and outwardly to others only as it ultimately applies to ourselves. Without God to worship, the highest thing we can worship is man—and I lived a life not much higher than myself.

Then one day I came to the sobering realization that if God doesn’t exist, then there is no meaning to life! Without God, then the world is just some random occurrence of matter and energy; life is nothing more than electric impulses and protein strands. And if life is just a cosmic accident, then there is no point to life and no point trying to be happy and no point to encouraging happiness in others. There is no point to eating lunch and buckling your seatbelt and no point in getting married and making new lives—which are ultimately pointless, too.

In the end, this is what pushed me to believe in God—because I couldn’t imagine the idea of life without Him. Existence without God meant life without a meaning to life, and I didn’t want that to be my answer.

I know that this is not a convincing argument, and that it means that the reason I believe is that I’m afraid of the opposite. Even at the time I knew that it wasn’t a very good reason.

But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve come back to this conclusion several times—that believing in God meant that other parts of life don’t make sense without Him either. Even things that weren’t directly related to my spiritual journey would pop up as proof of this conclusion.

I would learn that the reason that the Western world could develop science was that they had an understanding that God is orderly and predictable—he didn’t fit the model of the ancient pagans that the gods were wild and unpredictable tyrants that blew up volcanoes if enough goats weren’t sacrificed. The God of the Bible wasn’t a childish villain, He was someone to be studied and adored, not pacified and avoided.

I would learn that the reason that evil exists isn’t because God willed evil to exist, but that people could freely choose to do without God—that people do bad things not because God wants them to do bad, but because they choose to stray from Him.

A number of people wiser than me have tried to prove, logically, that God exists. St. Thomas Aquinas famously had 5 logical, mathematical proofs for God’s reality, like the “First Mover” proof and the “Necessary Being” argument. St. Anselm famously, and brilliantly, argued his Ontological proof, that God was the greatest possible being, and that alone proved his existence. The French mathematician and scientist Blasé Pascal would coin Pascal’s Wager as a bet that would demand that anyone believe in God or lose the bet.

In the end, none of them are as convincing to me as the weak, fragile answer I came up with years ago: I believe because I can’t not believe. Life without the Lord wasn’t some liberating, rule-less freedom and free-for-all—it was a logical trap that ended in worthlessness and proof that life didn’t matter at all.

There is a different answer to the meaning of life—it’s a question of why God made me! If God is real, then He is a creator god, and if He creates, then He creates for a purpose. And He has created me to know Him, to love Him and to serve Him in this life—so that I can be with Him in the next life. There is a purpose to it all and I believe it more than I believe anything in the whole wide world, if only because I don’t believe that I’d like to be part of a world without Him.

I don’t say any of this to prove to you that God is real. People much smarter than me have tried that and those arguments are fall flat. In the end, I’m only left with the understanding that I believe because God has given me the grace to believe and that I have cooperated with that grace. And that isn’t something that I can give to you, though I wish that I could. All I can say is that I am a believer in Hope; that I must believe that Truth is real and that I can hope to know that truth. Because if Truth is not real, then I can hope for nothing.

*****

Thanks for reading. This answer is not provable or even complete. But nonetheless, it is my answer.

The Caspar Star-Tribune in Sheridan, Wyoming ran a front-page story on Sunday dealing with forgiveness. Writer Kristy Gray tells the story of Fr. Rob Spaulding, a priest of their diocese, who when in seminary, wrecked a car after a night of drinking. Two people ended up dying in that crash, including my friend Matty Molnar.

It is a moving story. Kudos go to the Caspar Star-Tribune for taking the time to get the details right, getting all sides of the story, and for running the powerful piece on the front page of the Sunday edition.

AS A PRIEST, ROB SPAULDING PREACHES FORGIVENESS. WHAT HE EXPERIENCED TRANSCENDS EVEN THAT.

Reconciled

No street lights illuminate this winding, narrow road, but Rob Spaulding can see enough.

The car is facing the wrong direction, folded and bent at ugly angles where it hit the trees. Matty is lying on the side of the road.

Rob can’t see what Mark is doing, but he’s outside of the car, walking around.

Rob doesn’t remember how he got out.

We need an ambulance, Rob says into his cell phone.

One needs life support now.

Jared is still inside, slumped over the back of the driver’s seat. Rob reaches out to him and finds a pulse. He’s breathing, alive.

He kneels beside Matty and begins CPR.

Minutes earlier, Rob had been driving his friends around the lake, windows down, enjoying the midnight air. They had been promising young men, studying to become priests, passionate about their faith and the people they felt called to serve.

One reckless mistake destroyed nearly all of it.

But those of faith know that out of unthinkable sorrow, unimaginable love can grow.

Broken hearts can forgive.

Journey to seminary

Every year, Gillette’s hometown newspaper picks 10 people who, with acts small or large, made a difference in the community. It chose Rob Spaulding in 1995.

The summer before his senior year at Campbell County High School, Rob decided that a Fourth of July parade without a marching band wasn’t much of a parade. In a matter of weeks, he organized 52 mostly young musicians and formed a marching band, the parade’s first in at least 10 years.

In school, he built a resume typical of an overachiever:

Valedictorian, class of 1996; a national champion in DECA, a business and marketing competition; marching band drum major; and a one-time national qualifier in debate.

“It wasn’t just intelligence,” said Terry Quinn, Rob’s advanced math teacher and debate coach.

“He was a 35-year-old mind in an 18-year-old body.”

Though Rob attended Sunday evening Masses at St. Matthew’s Catholic Church, it wasn’t a dominant part of his life.

Music was his passion.

He played the oboe, saxophone and guitar. He played piano in the St. Matthew‘s music group.

In college, he was the music director at St. Paul’s Newman Center, a church serving the Catholic community at the University of Wyoming in Laramie.

The Rev. Roger Schmit was skeptical when he applied. Who is this 18-year-old kid? Music directors are older, more experienced.

“I was very slow in responding to him. But he was persistent,” said Schmit, who now works at Conception Abbey in Missouri.

“There is something about the way he communicates that is so genuine, something wholesome about the way he visits with people.”

Rob earned three degrees in six years, including a bachelor’s in music and a master’s in business. In 2001, he won the Tobin Memorial Award given annually to one outstanding male graduate.

People expected him to go into business, marry his longtime girlfriend and spend summers camping and fishing with his children in Wyoming’s mountains.

But in Laramie, Rob saw the full power of a faithful community. In 1998, UW student Matthew Shepard was pistol whipped, tied to a fence and left to bleed on the prairie. As a member of the Newman Center’s pastoral staff, Rob felt the church reach out and pull students together, to heal through one another.

In 2002, he enrolled in seminary at St. Mary of the Lake in Mundelein, Ill., near Chicago — 1,000 miles from Wyoming. Instead of cowboy bars, Mundelein has neo-Georgian architecture. Instead of dusty pastures and huge skies, it has lakes and canopies of trees.

Rob decided to try it for one year.

He wasn’t sure if he could commit his life to the priesthood after his first year — or after his second. During his third, in the spring of 2005, he completed a pastoral internship at St. Mary’s Cathedral in Cheyenne, a chance to minister directly to people. In August, he chaperoned 180 Wyoming kids at World Youth Day 2005 in Cologne, Germany. The faith, fellowship and community Rob experienced there convinced him.

He returned that September to Mundelein Seminary for his fourth year.

All right, he told himself. I’m ready.

The crash

It was a Wednesday, Sept. 14, 2005: the day before Mundelein’s big golf tournament, a yearly fundraiser that seminarians help put on. Semester classes would start soon. Rob, then 27, needed a breather and went for a walk around the forested road circling the campus’ lake.

He ran into fellow seminarian Mark Rowlands. Mark convinced Rob to go out for a drink, to catch up after the summer.

Mark drove them to Emil’s, a sports bar and pizzeria, where they met four other seminarians, including Jared Cheek, 23, and Matty Molnar, 28.

Jared had just moved across the hall from Rob in the dorms. He had a baby face and bright green eyes. Rob knew little about him, except that he liked to tell jokes and was the star of the seminary basketball team.
Rob knew Matty from music. Matty sang in the choir that performed at Tuesday Masses; Rob was the director. Matty played piano and guitar. He was always smiling, joking, the life of the party.

Rob ordered one Long Island Iced Tea. Later, he ordered one more.

Jared and Matty stayed behind to hang with Rob and Mark. After about 3 ½ hours, about 12:30 a.m., the four called it a night. Walking toward the door, Mark pulled Rob aside.

You’ve had the least to drink, Mark told him. You have to drive.

Mark held out his keys.

There were good reasons to say no: They were just a mile from campus, an easy walk. But Rob’s ego wanted to say yes, to pull through for his buddies. Besides, he’d only had two drinks.

After leaving Emil’s, Rob drove the four to a fast food restaurant, but it was closed. A cop pulled behind the car, following it for several blocks. Rob’s driving never drew attention.

It’s the kind of confidence that is so misleading and so dangerous, he says. Not all intoxicated drivers are sloppy drunks. Not all stumble to their vehicles and fumble with the turn signals. Rob didn’t feel drunk.

He drove the car back to the seminary. Mark sat in the front passenger seat, Jared and Matty in the back.
Someone suggested a drive around the lake. At the other side, Rob drove the car across the bridge. Someone egged him on: Go faster. Go faster.

The speed limit was 25 mph. He was going about 55 when he felt the tire slip.

The bottom

Rob’s scapula is broken, and his kidney is torn. Nurses have removed the glass from his face and cleaned the blood from the cuts.

A man walks into his hospital room, and Rob can see he’s been crying.

I need to know, Rob says. Is Matty dead or alive?

The president of Mundelein Seminary doesn’t answer.

If he’s dead, don’t say anything.

Rob waits through the long seconds of silence that follow.

Mark walked away from the crash with a broken arm. But what about Jared? Where is he?

Rob thinks of his friends’ families, of his own parents. Of all the pain he’s caused.

I’ll never be able to go home again, he thinks. I’ll never go to a place where they don’t know.

What was lost

At 5:30 a.m., a ringing phone stops a mother’s heart.

Joan Magette jolts awake. Then she stops breathing. All four of her children are away from her home in St. Marys, Kan.

Her husband, Brandon, answers.

Who is it? She asks. Erin? Emily?

It can’t be Jared. He’s at seminary. Safe.

The call lasts forever. Finally, Brandon hangs up.

Who is it? What’s the matter?

It’s Jared, he answers. A car accident.

And Matty died.

Joan walks into the fog — questions, decisions, things to do, everything bumps around inside her head. Was Jared driving? Were they on that dangerous Illinois interstate? And Matty? Was her son’s friend really gone?

Joan and Brandon pack a week’s worth of clothing. Whatever happens, Joan will not leave Jared’s side, and she wants to be prepared. Brain injuries can take a long time to heal.

The last thing she grabs is the silver rosary of carved rosebuds Jared bought her at World Youth Day in Germany a month before.

By the time she gets to Advocate Lutheran General Hospital near Chicago, Jared is in a coma, hooked to a ventilator.

It’s Jared, she thinks. Just not all of him.

Growing up in St. Marys, a small town in northeastern Kansas, Jared always had to be on the move. He played every sport he could and loved basketball, cross country and golf. During his senior year, he played in the state finals on the football team.

Though his parents divorced when he was 9, his mom and his dad, Rick Cheek, raised him in the Catholic Church. Younger parishioners looked up to him.

“The words people around here used were, ‘He was on fire with his faith,’” Joan said.

He would have made a superb priest. She hoped to see him give a homily.

I’m going to be one of those priests, he told her once. I’m going to be on the podium and I won’t need any notes. I’m not going to have to write down what I want to say.

The hospital waiting room fills with friends, seminarians and Mundelein staff. Then, they crowd into the intensive care unit, breaking the two-at-a-time rule. No one from the hospital objects.

Joan waits late into the night. Her sister asks her archbishop to lead them in the rosary. Simultaneously, all of the people in the room reach into their pockets and pull out their beads.

“I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth, and in Jesus Christ, his only Son …”
At 9:30 the next morning, a doctor tries to tell Joan, but he can‘t find the words.

Joan asks the question directly: Is there any brain activity?

No.

Joan turns to the director of Mundelein Seminary: Does that mean Jared’s already beginning his journey to heaven?

“He has to be so proud of the death that he had,” Joan said. “I don’t know if that’s possible, but nobody gets to have the honor that he had that day.”

Another heartbreak

At the same time the phone wakes Joan Magette, Richard Molnar answers the phone ringing in his mother’s house, 75 miles away. Then he walks into her room.

Mom, you need to get up.

What? Richard, it’s 5 in the morning.

Mom, put something on. Get dressed. A priest is coming over.

Pam Molnar pulls on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and goes downstairs. Coffee first. On her way to the kitchen, she glances out the living room window and sees a priest walking up the driveway. What could he want?

Even after he comes in, asks to sit and breaks the news, Pam doesn’t believe it. She just talked to Matty last night.

He’d been hustling across campus, just finished preparing for the Mundelein golf tournament, on his way to choir practice. He‘d been so excited to sing under the new director.

Afterward, he and Jared were going out for pizza and beer, taking out a couple of new Mundelein students.

I’m where I need to be, he told her. I’ll let you go and I’ll talk to you later. I love you, Mom.

Growing up in Prairie Village, just on the Kansas side of Kansas City, he was called Matthew by his mom — her perfect middle child. He was shy and reserved in Catholic grade school.

In 1993, as a high school freshman, he went to World Youth Day in Denver thanks to someone else’s last-minute cancellation.

“That was the beginning of all this,” Pam said. “That’s when he decided. He didn’t know what he was going to do, but it was going to be something with the church.”

When he returned from Denver, he became Matty. Pam’s not sure where it came from, but the nickname fit his new outgoing personality. He put it on his license plate.

If you search for it, you can still find Matty’s blog — jpthe2nd, an abbreviation for Pope John Paul II — floating around the Internet.

There, profiles live indefinitely. He likes prayer, Catholic Church, coffee, all types of dancing, gin and cuff links. He’s going to become a priest in 2008, his profile says. “I want to serve the Lord and love and live life to the fullest.”

On Sept. 10, 2005, Matty thanked everyone for a wonderful birthday the day before. At about 10 a.m. Sept. 14, he wrote his last entry — his first “Ecclesiological rant of the year.” He asked his readers to consider not “What would Jesus do?” but what Jesus already did.

Twenty-five hours later, his blog became his memorial: “Hi Matty. I heard some horrific news this morning and am praying every second that it is not true … please call me as soon as you get this so that I may stop worrying.”

Mothers forgive

The Bible teaches that forgiveness is essential to the Christian life, that God commands it, just as He has forgiven the faithful. Forgiveness is offered without request or condition.

But how does a mother forgive the man who killed her son?

For Pam, and separately for Joan, forgiveness came without fanfare. It wasn’t a decision in the concrete sense, like choosing a restaurant or a new pair of jeans.

More than 1,000 people attended Matty’s funeral. He was known for his ability to attract friends and form lasting bonds. Some of those friends were angry.

But Pam wasn’t angry at Rob Spaulding, a man she had never heard of but who had been with Matty on his last night. She can’t explain why. “I guess I was thinking Matty could have been driving.”

Really, she just felt numb.

Nor was forgiveness deliberate for Joan.

She says anger or hate never occurred to her family. She, her husband, Brandon, and Jared’s father were all on the same page. They missed Jared with every ounce. That was all.

She remembers sitting in her kitchen, talking about Rob’s case with her sister. You know, he could go to prison, her sister said.

How sad, Joan thought.

Many bad decisions were made that night, including Jared’s to get in the car. Joan didn’t want any more bad to come.

Suzanne Willett, chief of the Lake County state’s attorney traffic office in Illinois, called Joan to brief her on the case. Rob pleaded guilty in February 2006, and Joan and Pam would have the chance to speak at his sentencing.

What would happen to this young man, the one Joan saw standing next to her son in a rectory photograph taken shortly before the crash? On television, she’d seen him walking out of court, trying to push through reporters as he crossed the street with his mother. Her heart ached for him.

Joan, you’re the victims here, the prosecutor explained over the phone. He was drunk, and Illinois does not tolerate drunken driving. It was her job to go after Rob to the full extent of the law.

No, you’re not listening, Joan told her

I don’t want him to go to jail.

The sentencing

The sun is shining on the Lake County, Ill., courthouse.

Inside wait family and friends, priests and students from Mundelein Seminary. Joan and Pam sit together, just behind the prosecutor’s table. They had never met before their sons’ deaths, but know they will be forever bonded after.

It’s May 2, 2006: sentencing day for Rob Spaulding.

He’s pleaded guilty to three felonies — two counts of reckless homicide and one count of aggravated driving under the influence of alcohol. He faces 10 years in prison.

The prosecutor had been prepared to send Rob away, but switched gears when the mothers asked her for leniency. She will argue for probation.

Will the judge agree?

When it is Joan’s turn to address the court, the tears come almost immediately. She holds her papers with trembling hands.

Jared was her oldest child, she says, loved as a son, a big brother, a nephew, grandson and friend. Everyone was anxious to see where his passions would lead, what he would accomplish. She was counting on him to help strengthen her own faith.

But sending Rob Spaulding to prison will only add to her pain, she says.

It’s Pam’s turn next. “People ask me how I feel about losing my son and how I must hate the guy that was driving. I do not hate ‘the guy’ — he has a name — who was driving,” she reads from her victim’s impact statement.

She pauses, collects herself, begins again.

“Hate is a terrible word. Hate is like a cancer that eats away at your heart and soul and makes you a bitter person …”

Matty would forgive, she tells the court. If Rob Spaulding still wants to be a priest, she hopes he will be allowed to do it.

She sits next to Joan, turning Rob’s fate into the court‘s hands.

Precedent is clear. Drunken drivers go to jail, and Rob’s blood-alcohol content was 0.135 percent, almost twice the legal level. He was driving twice as fast as the speed limit.

Pam and Joan hold hands as the judge begins to speak.

In sentencing, Judge Victoria Rossetti says, she must balance rehabilitation, information about the defendant and punishment. She asks three questions she answers herself:

Is Rob Spaulding likely to commit another crime? No. He has no prior criminal record.

Will Rob likely comply with probation? Yes, just as he’s complied with all bond requirements.

Is a sentence necessary to deter others from committing the same kind of crime? “Absolutely,” she says, then speaks to Rob directly. ”You have lived an exemplary life until that night … All it takes is one decision, and now you are an example, not exemplary.”

Rob drops his head. Pam and Joan wait and listen.

Nevertheless, the judge continues, Rob is in counseling, has taken full responsibility and spared the families from a trial. He has shown true remorse and been the recipient of genuine forgiveness.

She finds “that prison is not appropriate and that probation is the appropriate sentence.”

What? What did she say? Joan turns to Pam.

Probation?

A sigh whispers through the courtroom. Pam thinks she clapped.

Rob is sentenced to 30 months of intensive probation, 18 months of house arrest and 250 hours of community service. He must pay $5,000 to the Alliance Against Intoxicated Motorists.

Before Rob is led out of the courtroom for processing, Joan finds him and hugs him. Is this OK? She asks.

That night, staying in a room at Mundelein Seminary, Joan watches a news report on the sentencing. She sees herself and Pam walking out of the courthouse, into the sunlight.

“We walked away happy. Can you believe that?” she says.

“Our sons died, and we had smiles on our faces.”

Reconciliation

People sometimes tell Rob that God must have had a reason. God must have needed Matty and Jared in heaven.

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Rob said. “God did not cause this to happen. I did.

“But God has been part of rebuilding it since the time of the crash.”

In April 2006, Rob and his parents drove to Kansas. He met with Rick Cheek, Jared’s father, Joan and then Pam. I am so, so sorry, he said to each one.

He didn’t expect forgiveness then, didn’t ask for it.

But they all gave it.

What they did transcends forgiveness, Rob said. It crosses over into redemption and reconciliation — standing eyelash to eyelash with the man who killed their sons and then inviting him to become part of their lives.

After sentencing, Rob wore a court-ordered monitoring device for nine months. He could leave the rectory at St. Mary Parish in Buffalo Grove, Ill., only for work, school, church and community service. He talked to 20 high schools in Chicago about the crash and sat on victim impact panels. One of the hardest for Rob was a young woman’s panel. Two weeks after Rob had spoken at her school, after he had told about Matty and Jared and all that had been lost, she had driven drunk.

Would it ever make a difference? Rob wondered then.

He had to believe that it would.

After everything, he still wanted to be a priest. But Mundelein Seminary asked him to wait at least two years before applying again. It needed time to heal.

In August 2006, Rob asked the Wyoming Diocese to continue his studies at Catholic Theological Union in Chicago.

Seminarians must be sponsored by dioceses, and Wyoming’s support had never faltered. While he was still in the hospital, Wyoming’s Catholic community showered him with love.

We know what you’ve been through, people said in e-mails, cards and phone calls.

Welcome home.

Rob graduated from the seminary on May 13, 2009, was ordained a transitional deacon on May 22, and went to Holy Name Catholic Community in Sheridan at the end of June. He was ordained a priest on Aug. 10, 2009, in Laramie, in front of 620 people. Pam and Joan drove from Kansas to be there, but didn’t introduce themselves to many people. They didn’t want to interfere with Rob’s day.

Bishop Paul Etienne of the Wyoming Diocese says some people will use Rob’s history as an excuse to take shots at the church and the priesthood: Here’s another guy who got a pass and didn’t have to pay for his actions.

Though Etienne didn’t come to Wyoming until November — after Rob had been ordained — he says the diocese’s decision to stand with Rob was the right one.

“For all of us, as Catholics and Christians, the cross is at the heart of our lives,” Etienne said. “The trials are different, but if we deal with them appropriately, they are all a source of insight, not just into ourselves, but to the human experience.

“This is one of those encounters of the cross. It involves real death and resurrection.”

Unmasked

Holy Name is a congregation of about 1,200 people, nestled in a quiet Sheridan neighborhood.

Standing in the church foyer, Father Rob greets the arriving parishioners. He grabs their hands and welcomes them with a joke or smile.

Inside, he is almost as nervous as he has ever been.

He plans to give the homily he’s prayed over almost since coming here nearly a year ago. Rob wanted time to get to know the parishioners, to build a community, before he formally told them his story.

He’s not afraid to answer questions. People will form their own opinions. But he worries about whether his congregation will accept him. Will it hurt his ability to share God’s message?

This weekend, the Celebration of Pentecost, Rob’s vestment is red, a color symbolizing the fire of the Holy Spirit. This is often considered the church’s birthday, a celebration of its origins after Jesus rose from the dead.

Rob begins the homily with a reading from the Gospel of John, when Jesus forgives his disciples for abandoning him in his crucifixion and for huddling frightened in a room instead of spreading the news about his resurrection. Jesus says, “Peace be with you,” reconciling the relationship so they can move forward, so his followers can become disciples on fire once again.

Rob steps away from the pulpit.

He knows the promise of the spirit is true, he says, because he’s experienced reconciliation in his own life.
So Rob tells. About running into Matty and Jared at the pizzeria. About saying yes when he should have said no. About driving to Kansas with his parents, about hearing three words with the power to reach through the deepest despair: I forgive you.

“For me, when I think of love in action and reconciliation, the families of Matty and Jared are examples of living the Christian message, of living the life of Christ that each one of us is called to do.”

Father Rob pauses, unmasked and utterly exposed.

His voice cracks for the first time.

“But I have to be honest with you, I’m pretty afraid at this moment.”

Amy Rojo has already heard this story, but she cries anyway.

Last year, she struggled in church. Her son had gotten into trouble. She felt judged and isolated.

Then, Father Rob came. He was young, just 31 years old, and so vibrant. When her mother got sick, he was so gentle.

“I went every Sunday just to listen to him preach, to hear that homily,” Rojo said. He challenged the parish to invite new people into their homes, to get to know one another as a community. Then he posted a dinner menu.

I want to practice what I preach, he had said, and invited parishioners to come and eat with him.

Amy was so excited, she called her son.

Mom, you know him, he told her.

No, I don’t.

Remember when we posted the names of the people we were praying for on our refrigerator? We prayed for him. He was the one in the accident.

Amy didn’t know Rob then, and she didn’t know the circumstances. She just knew he needed love. She had prayed for him as a mother of three boys.

After the phone call, Amy reached out to Rob. She shared her family’s story and then listened as Rob shared his.

She remembers what she said to him: “Father Rob, you are now in a position to reach out to serve others. You can bring faith and hope and love to those that are in despair.”

And maybe that’s the good that rises from the broken glass and twisted metal, the life that comes from those cut short. For those who hurt, regret, are living every day with the consequences of their mistakes, Father Rob can listen. He can walk beside them and say that healing and reconciliation are possible. He knows, because both happened to him.

He knows that forgiveness is real.

Matty was a friend of mine; we went to high school together. I’ve prayed with him, laughed with him, sang with him and hugged his mother at his funeral. What a great guy. Heaven is a better place for having him in the choir.

And compliments to Fr. Rob Spaulding and to the families of Matty and Jared who have shown true Christian grace and strength in the years since the accident. You are all worthy models.

I really didn’t want to write this post, but the worldwide clergy sex abuse scandal doesn’t show any signs of going away. In the Sunday bulletin at my local parish, there was a blurb about charges made against a priest who was an associate at the parish less than a decade ago, asking anyone who had any information about this former priest to contact the Archdiocese. *sigh*

The much-famed Fr. Longenecker has gotten a lot of attention with a blog post titled The Myth of Pedophile Priests, but I find his arguments somewhat uncompelling. Every Catholic is going to come up with his or her own response. This is mine.

*****

The funniest Easter joke I know is about Jesus coming out of the grave, seeing his shadow and giving us 6 more weeks of winter. It was told to me by a priest– a family friend, when I was about 8. He’d come to functions of parish families; I remember seeing him at big Christmas and Easter parties growing up. He was a young, energetic, likable priest; so affable that the Archbishop named him the first chaplain of a new high school in 1992. He’s got a brick with his name carved in it in their Student Commons, named as one of the early donors to the school. He’s also no longer a priest. I was too young to understand all the details, but I remember being told that he had a sickness where he liked boys and girls too much, so he had to move away where he could try to get better.

In grade school and in high school, I wasn’t a very good student—particularly in classes that didn’t come easily. I had a lot of zeroes in my eighth-grade math class from homework that I never did, and a number of bad test grades because I never studied (or practiced… i.e. homework). The math teacher took pity on me—rather than fail me in math class, she said that I could interview a priest about the priesthood and what it meant to pursue a vocation. Yeah, when I was younger, a lot of people thought I’d be a priest. My dad set up an appointment with the Archdiocese vocations director and my mom helped me craft a list of questions I could ask him. I wrote a 5-page paper and passed math with a “C”. The Archdiocese vocations director in the 90’s was a young and cool priest. He wore Air Jordans (the Jordan 6 with the red “jumpman” logo on the sole and tongue) under his vestments, so when he genuflected before ascending the sanctuary steps, you could see the big red logo on his feet. He’d later be my high school’s chaplain, my parish’s assistant pastor, and when I went to college, he was in residence at the St. Lawrence Center, where he’d sometimes say the Sunday 9:00 PM Mass that all the cool Catholic students attended. He was the first priest I knew to have an email address—an AOL address that I still remember, though it’s long out of service. At a high school retreat when I was a junior or senior, I remember him telling us boys in a breakout session about how he dealt with sexual temptations as a priest by, ahem, using his hand. Eew! The same hand that he held up in blessings and the same hand by which he gave us communion. He’s no longer a priest either. In details that I garnered from news reports, I pieced together that he was in a gay relationship with a fellow priest who dumped him, so he rebounded with a high school boy. I may have some of those details wrong. I lost interest in the details after a while. This was in 1998 or 1999, back before the sex abuse scandal got the widespread coverage it would get just a few years later. These days, he sells fertilizer to farmers down in one of the desolate stretches of Kansas and checks in with the Sex Offender registry.

The media would get a hold of this sex abuse story in 2002—led by the Boston Globe, whose investigations and tough, evenhanded writing would win it a Pulitzer for their journalism. The Globe still maintains the story on their website that discusses the problem and Boston’s recovery. I had kind of forgotten that the Globe was the leader in the reporting until I read a column by Peggy Noonan that ran in the Wall Street Journal a few weeks ago. Noonan praised the press for bringing the story to light, and then praised the Church for stepping up to handle the scandal once they understood the scope of the problem. She makes the point that John Paul II bungled the affair because he couldn’t fathom how priests could fail en masse like that; the priests that he grew up with were the Polish heroes of the 30’s, 40’s and 50’s—truly heroic men whose dedication to serving the Lord and the Church meant that they risked life and limb to bring souls to Christ. That so many priests could be scoundrels was beyond his wildest imagination. It wasn’t until Pope Benedict XVI would take the papacy that the Church could begin to turn around the battleship.

In fairness though, the Vatican administration of His Holiness John Paul II did take some action. Bernard Law, the Cardinal Archbishop of Boston is now the rector of St. Mary Major in Rome. John Allen Jr. wrote an excellent piece about Card. Law for a story of how one of America’s most powerful clerics makes his time as a parish priest in a foreign land these days; when I read it in 2008, it left me with a very humble understanding of how this chief conspirator performs his penance with grace. Yet, shipping His Eminence to Rome isn’t exactly the punishment that some were wanting for Law, who appears to be the poster-bishop for shuffling predator priests around Boston rather than taking any serious measures to correct the abuse.

Strictly speaking, I think that it’s wrong to say that the Church hides the facts about sexual abuse. A sex abuse problem appears to be bigger than anyone understood at any time; Timothy Dolan, the Archbishop of New York, certainly seems correct when he says “Nobody, nowhere, no time, no way, no how knew the extent, depth, or horror of this scourge, nor how to adequately address it”. Yes, it’s hard to deny that the bishops bungled their handling of the situation. But it doesn’t appear to be by any malevolence on the part of the shepherds—just mishandling.

Statistics show that the abuse problem peaked in the 70’s and 80’s, while bishops were using 1950’s tactics to handle it— giving priests a “fresh start” in a new parish might have been a good tactic when problems were isolated and the psychology of pedophilia and pederasty were poorly understood, but when you have a large number of offenders, “fresh starts” look like nothing more than rearranging chairs. That said, if someone is committing crimes, it is unarguable that the offenders should have been turned over to the police. It’s really a wonder that there aren’t more priests in jail over this.

I wonder if the dwindling numbers of priests in the years after Vatican II put the bishops up against the wall: if a bishop knew of widespread abuse problems in his diocese, what’s he going to do? Fire every priest? The moral-high-ground answer is “yes”, but how realistic is that? Back when I was managing restaurants, I had a bad cook. He’d come in late, was sometimes high at work, he messed up orders—when it finally became obvious that I had to fire him, I had to do so at the end of his shift, because we were already a little short-staffed for that night. I’m sure the bishops had the same problem, expect more widespread and more serious.

I also think that it speaks to a misunderstanding people have about the Church. If you have a bad priest—or even worse, a bad bishop—you can’t really fire them. You can take them out of ministry, you can make it against Church law for them to offer Mass or the sacraments, you can send them to a hermitage, but you can’t really fire a priest. In ordination, their hands are bound and their souls indelibly marked—they are a priest forever, in the line of Melchizedek. Even those two priests I talked about in the beginning of this post—are sacramentally priests, though they are suspended a divinis. The theology can’t be undone. I could confess to them in a case of emergency, and could give me my last rites if I was dying and no other priest was available. Likewise for bishops—while His Eminence Cardinal Law is no longer the Archbishop of Boston, he’s still a bishop—and retains the “power” to confirm and ordain, though his station in life is just like a parish pastor. (Yes, I’m understating his role as “parish pastor”. He’s a Prince of the Church and the rector of a major basilica—St. Mary Major is one of the most important churches on earth. But in the day-to-day duties of his work, it’s comparable to what Fr. Tom Dolezal does at Holy Trinity in Lenexa). The Church can’t un-priest its priests; sacraments can be soiled and tarnished, but they can’t be undone.

My high school buddies used to tell a lewd joke about priests. Its punchline was about what kind of penance Father gives—a candy bar and a Coke. Oh, we thought we were so funny! A little bit of knowledge makes a lot of sophomoric jokes. That same joke would disgust me today.

Now I understand things a little differently than I understand them as a teenager. For one thing, I understand more clearly that Satan is REAL, and that he prowls the world seeking the ruin of souls. And I understand that when a person tries to live a holy life, the devil attacks them all the harder—hell has no greater trophies than the souls of people who tried to live holy lives. I can’t think of any other explanation. The priest who used to be the vocations director said as much in court during his sentencing: “The devil works overtime. I was weak. I am weak today”, he said. Of course, it’s only half the issue to blame Satan. Satan only tempts. Priests make their own decisions.

We all make our own decisions.

The Church has had a long trouble with sexual temptations. Go do a little research on the Renaissance popes, with their sexual romps in St. Peter’s Basilica, and how Pope Urban VIII is the great-great-great grandson of Pope Alexander VI. I read a brief story how today’s priestly clerical dress morphed out of rules mandated in the 16th Century as a way to keep priests out of bars and brothels.

*****

There is an old prayer to St. Michael that Catholics used to pray after every Mass. The story goes that Pope Leo XIII had a vision after one particular Mass in 1886 where he saw a vision of a great battle between the devil and the Catholic Church. The vision terrified him so much that he locked himself in his office for a time; when he came out, he had penned a prayer invoking St. Michael the Archangel’s protection. His Holiness directed that copies be made of the prayer and sent to every bishop on earth, to be prayed by every Catholic after every Mass. The prayer read:

Saint Michael the Archangel,
defend us in battle;
be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.
May God rebuke him, we humbly pray:
and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host,
by the power of God,
thrust into hell Satan and all the evil spirits
who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls.
Amen.

We Catholics were faithful in saying this prayer for about 80 years; right up until the Church turmoil of the 1960’s when the practice was discontinued (or more accurately, made optional. And thus: effectively discontinued).

Is there any question that the devil is attacking the Catholic Church? He has corrupted our priests so much that even the good and innocent clergy feel the need to apologize for the trespasses of their guilty brother priests. The whole Church is backpedaling under the weight of the sin it created for itself. People my age are afraid to have their children baptized Catholic, for fear that they’re just marking their kids as targets. Others leave the Church for rival denominations. Others abandon their faith altogether.

But.

The way to beat Satan is the same formula that the Church has used since Christ Himself: prayer, fasting and almsgiving. Penance. And maybe jailtime. Even the Jews of Jesus’ era needed Caesar to try certain crimes (see: Pontius Pilate), so it’s appropriate to turn over pedophiles and pederasts to the cops. But we cannot discount prayer! And it’s not just the tempted or guilty priests who have to pray, fast and give alms—innocent priests and laypeople can do it too—it wasn’t all that long ago that Catholics prayed the St. Michael Prayer to protect the Church from the devil after every Mass. What is stopping you from praying it still for the benefit of the Church? What is stopping you from praying it still for the benefit of your family? What is stopping you from praying it still for your own protection?

I know, I know. You don’t want to be one of those people after Mass who stop to kneel and pray for a few minutes after Mass, only to miss out on gladhanding with Father by the parish gift shop. And the time after Mass isn’t usually conducive to praying anyway, what with all the people clapping along with the drum solo in the recessional song and the general chatter of the congregation that seems to follow every Mass. When I stay after Mass to pray, I usually run the risk of missing out on the best after-Church donuts and getting stuck choosing between the half-smooshed jelly donut and slumming it with a bagel (also known as the consolation-donut). So I usually pray the St. Michael Prayer after receiving Holy Communion, along with the Anima Christi and the Angelus. It helps me focus on connecting with Our Lord and His mission for us, rather than spending the minutes people-watching.

I’m not the kind of person who looks for coincidences to prove his point. Too often, such reasoning leads to a logical fallacy called “Post hoc, ergo propter hoc”, or “After this, thus because of this”. It means that because a certain situation happened after some particular event, the event must have caused the situation (example: I clapped my hands before it rained, thus my hand clapping caused the rain). But I have to admit that I’m inclined to draw this conclusion: about the time Catholics quit pleading for St. Michael’s protection in the battle against the wickedness and snares of the devil, the Church fell victim to Satan’s corruption.

The problem with sex abusing priests is a serious one facing the Church. I take some comfort that the program that the US Bishops have created to prevent abuse, report abuse and correct abuse is considered one of the best programs of any bishops’ conference in the worldwide Church– and is now serving as a model for dioceses in every corner of the globe. But that is only small comfort.

St. Michael, defend us in battle.

One of the reasons that I haven’t been posting much on WhollyRoaminCatholic is because I have a new project on my plate. I’ve been remodeling the bathroom of the WRC estate.

I grew up in the family plumbing business and have been working around construction from the time I was about 13 years old. I’m out of the business these days and have no hankering to go back– but it’s given me a certain confidence to tear into the walls and get my hands dirty. Mrs. WRC and I remodeled our kitchen the year after we were married, and now it’s time to do the bathroom.

Someone asked me what I was planning on doing for St. Joseph’s Day this year. Usually St. Joseph’s Day is a the quieter saint’s day of March, happening two days after St. Patrick’s Day. I spent St. Joseph’s Day sanding drywall and prepping the shower walls for new tile.

When we did the kitchen, Mrs. WRC was a competent partner, helping me demolish the old kitchen and rebuild a new one; she helped hang tile, install cabinets, put in new appliances and paint all anew. She’s an amazing woman like that.

This time around, she’s staying at her mother’s house. I think she’d like to be here in the midst of the work, but I asked her to take a couple weeks away. I want to keep her out of the dust and filth of construction because she’s carrying our first child. (!) So she graciously (and secretly, thankfully) accepted my request to go out while this project is going on. Not to mention that we don’t have a shower right now. Being a guy, I don’t mind scavenging for a late-night shower, but that’s not very befitting of a lady. Especially one in a family way.

*****

Tomorrow is the feast of the Annunciation, the day we recognize that the Angel Gabriel appeared to Mary to tell her that she was to be the virgin Mother of God. It is the story told in the first chapter of Luke’s gospel:

In the sixth month, the angel Gabriel was sent from God into a city of Galilee, called Nazareth, to a virgin espoused to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David; and the virgin’s name was Mary. And the angel being come in, said unto her: Hail, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou among women. Who having heard, was troubled at his saying, and thought with herself what manner of salutation this should be. And the angel said to her: Fear not, Mary, for thou hast found grace with God.

Behold thou shalt conceive in thy womb, and shalt bring forth a son; and thou shalt call his name Jesus. He shall be great, and shall be called the Son of the most High; and the Lord God shall give unto him the throne of David his father; and he shall reign in the house of Jacob for ever. And of his kingdom there shall be no end. And Mary said to the angel: How shall this be done, because I know not man? And the angel answering, said to her: The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee, and the power of the most High shall overshadow thee. And therefore also the Holy which shall be born of thee shall be called the Son of God.

And behold thy cousin Elizabeth, she also hath conceived a son in her old age; and this is the sixth month with her that is called barren: Because no word shall be impossible with God. And Mary said: Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it done to me according to thy word. And the angel departed from her.

There is so much to learn from these three paragraphs! More than I can do justice in a post on this blog. But it was Mary’s humble submission “be it done to me according to thy word” that would change the course of history. Her decision to trust the Lord and accept His will is a model for us still two millennia later.

The story of the Annunciation is retold in a prayer called “The Angelus“, a prayer whose earliest form dates back to the thirteenth century. Abbey bells would ring to signify that the monks should begin their evening prayers. In the towns that surrounded medieval abbeys, other people would pause their toil and pray three Hail Marys to end each work day.

Over time, it would evolve into a prayer said three times a day (morning, midday and evening)– with verses retelling the story of the annunciation fit in between each of the three Hail Mary prayers.

I have been praying this prayer 6 times a week for many months, hoping that Mrs. WRC and I could have a baby. Now that she is with child, I continue to pray it that she has a safe and happy time as a new and expectant mother. EWTN’s website has the text of the prayer if you care to (spiritually) join me in prayer each day around noon.

*****

After this annunciation to Mary, she traveled from her home in Nazareth up to the hill country in Judea. The distance, about 90 miles, is quite a hoof for a pregnant lady. Mary went to see her cousin Elizabeth who was also expecting a miracle baby (she was too old to conceive, but was told by the Angel Gabriel that she was also to have son). Elizabeth’s child, John the Baptist, would leap in Elizabeth’s womb at the sound of Mary’s voice, causing Elizabeth to exclaim to Mary “Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb!” Mary would stay with Elizabeth for a few months until Joseph would come down to bring her home.

This trip, called “The Visitation”, has been on my mind a lot lately. I think of how exciting it must have been for Mary and Elizabeth to be sharing the same joys of expecting a family. I can imagine them going to the first-century equivalent of Babies ‘Я Us and talking about what color they’re going to paint the rooms and pondering the merits of various stroller designs. As an expectant father, I’m only partially in the loop on these things. It is mostly my job to apply the paint that Mrs. WRC picks out for WRCJr’s room.

I’ve also been thinking about Mrs. WRC staying with her mother while I’m remodeling the Estate.

Tradition suggests that St. Joseph walked with Mary while she was traveling down and back to see her cousin, but that while she was away, he stayed home and worked. A carpenter’s pay was not a rich man’s wage then (or now), and he needed to stay working to support his new family. Besides, he probably needed some time to himself to sort out all this news of a virgin birth and to make sense of what was really happening in his life. The thought of being a new father is scary anyway, not to mention this business of angels and kings and holy spirits.

For my part, I’ve been staying at home and getting our house ready for my wife and child (at this moment, I’m waiting for tile thinset to dry). It seems like a fitting exercise here in March, an entire month dedicated to St. Joseph.

As an aside, it was here at the Visitation where Mary proclaimed the Magnificat, also called the Canticle of Mary. I’ve written about the Magnificat before, noting that it is basically the first Christmas carol (and the first one sung by a Jewish woman, paving the way for Barbara Streisand in the 1960’s).

*****

The patron saint of carpenters is, of course, St. Joseph. And any remodeler worth his salt would do well to ask his intercession. There is a patron of all tradesmen in St. Vincent Ferrer, whose steadfast work to build up the Church is a model for all people who spend their life building.

I’ve also been asking the intercession of St. Aloysius Gonzaga, though he is not the patron of anything related to bathroom remodeling. I’ve been turning to him for a more whimsical reason: Aloysius is the old German version (via Latin) of Ludwig. The French version is the more-common name Louis. Its Italian version is Luigi, the famous namesake of the evil-fighting, fireball-throwing, high-jumping plumber from Brooklyn. Bathroom remodels are jobs for plumbers who have experience with mushrooms (or in my case, some mild mold issues) and whose job is to work for the princess (or in my case, Mrs WRC). St. Luigi hasn’t let me down.

So please excuse my absence from the internets lately. I’ve got a couple other things going right now. I’ll check back as soon as I can. You understand, right?

St. Vincent Ferrer, St. Luigi (and especially) St. Joseph, pray for us!

So we’re a couple weeks into Lent, the process of spiritual cleansing and denial that prepares us for Easter. How are those Lenten resolutions coming, gentle reader?

I made 3 resolutions for myself:
(1) keep a fast for Lent
(2) adding at least an hour of Mass or adoration per week
(3) making a donation to a worthy charity

I’m sad to report mixed results so far. I took care of number three last week.

Number two hasn’t gone so well. I failed the first (short) week of Lent, but have time to refocus on that resolution and get back into gear. I’ve never been a particularly good pray-er, though sometimes I wonder if anyone feels like they are good pray-ers. Still, if I believe that practice makes perfect– and I want to be as perfect as a guy can be– then I need to spend more time practicing my holiness.

Number one. Oh, number one. The fast. grumblegrumblegrumble. Heh. Truthfully, the fast hasn’t been so hard thusfar. Oh, save your jokes about why camels have humps and other fat-guys-fasting yuks. But all-in-all, it’s not been as hard as I think it should have been. Scaling back breakfast has been one concern since I don’t really eat big breakfasts anyway. How do you eat half a bowl of cereal? Half a bowl of cereal just doesn’t look like fasting. But can’t skip breakfast and still be ready to work, so I have to have something in the morning. Lunch is easy to fast through: if I have an apple and glass of water, that’s usually enough to recharge my day.

Dinner is its own problem though. Under the general rules of fasting, people can have 1 full meal and 2 smaller meals that do not add up to a meal. It’s a little subjective. What is a full meal? Is a full meal made up of an appetizer, salad, entree-and-two-sides, dessert and after-dinner drinks?

Ahem.

Sometimes, yes.

That is the real temptation of fasting: to go overboard on the one-full-meal of the day. And on those days when you’re not sitting down to a proper supper at the family table, it gets even more murkey. In non-fasting times, dinner on those nights where I have to fend for myself might be made up of some leftover pasta, a dish of creamed corn, a slice of bread slathered with barbeque sauce and a 1/2 inch slice of Velveeta cheese (some elements of bachelorhood never go away). Who’s to know if I add a leftover waffle or hot dog to the mix? It’s such an irregular dinner that there’s no shame in chasing the whole thing with a second slice of Velveeta. Does that count as one full meal? Six meals? *sigh*

Today, however, there is no question. I’m breaking the fast today. Lent’s off for the next dozen hours or so. Today is one of those days where you wake up at 4 AM full of snot and slobber gasping for breath across your swollen tonsils. Sorry if that’s too much icky detail, but sometimes life is full of icky details.

So I started this morning with a pre-sunrise hot bowl of grits, a liberally-sized glass of orange juice and a second glass of V8 to boost my Vitamin-C to about 400% of my recommended daily allowance. Then I followed up with some leftover mac & cheese. And I feel great! Well, I feel better.

Some people would say that I should just live with the sickness and offer it up to the Lord. And in principle, I agree. But illness also precludes the usual rules of fasting– and I have an obligation to my wife to get some work done today that I can’t do if I’m slobbering into another box of Kleenex and watching The West Wing reruns all morning.

Oh, The West Wing reruns stopped an hour ago? Er, well, um. Yeah. Time to take another dose of cold medicine and get at it today. I should start with picking up these used kleenex tissues. It looks like someone sideswiped a homecoming float in here.

Have a blessed and fruitful Lent.

Several years ago, The Kansas City Catholic (now known as the Kansas Catholic, having taken his soul on the road to parts elsewhere in my great state) crafted a delightful exchange between churches on the nature of Ash Wednesday and Lent. The original is at http://kansascatholic.blogspot.com/2009/02/lenten-fare.html, and is reproduced here below.

Have a blessed and fruitful lent.

Today is Ash Wednesday. It’s not actually a Holy Day of Obligation, but most people treat is like it is. The churches will be packed today. People who haven’t been to Mass since Christmas will go to church Ash Wednesday. Church regulars will grumble that the intermittent-Catholics are taking all the good pews in church, and make comments like “do they think that ashes are magic or something?” Heh.

It’s also the day that people dust off the New Year’s resolutions that they abandoned sometime around January 6th and re-try them for Lenten resolutions. In my opinion though, that’s not exactly doing it correctly. It seems to me that most people make New Year’s resolutions to improve themselves: get a new job, lose weight, shoot an 85 on the golf course, etc. Lenten resolutions are something different though: it’s to humble yourself for God. Lent’s resolutions should be designed to make you holier; they should be about doing something for no purpose other than to improve your relationship with God.

Since time immemorial, people have fasted to grow in holiness. (OVERSIMPLIFICATION ALERT) They would, for a period of time, deny themselves the gratification of eating– so that when the period was up, the celebration of eating a big meal would coincide with celebrating with the Lord. When people entered into a Lenten fast on Ash Wednesday– the Easter feast where Christians celebrate Christ’s triumph over death would be even more spectacular: now with ham!

In modern days, most people don’t uphold the true Lenten fast anymore. Indeed, even Holy Mother Church herself doesn’t prescribe the fast for Catholics. Under certain conditions (healthy between the ages of 18 and 60), Catholics are required to fast on Ash Wednesday and Good Friday… and that’s pretty much it these days. Even the old rules about abstinence from meat have been relaxed to Ash Wednesday and Good Friday (Good Friday is redundant, since Canons 1250 and 1251 in the Code of Canon Law require Catholics to abstain from meat EVERY Friday of the year), whereas in times past, Carne-Vale (Latin for Goodbye, Meat!) was in place for all of Lent as well as every Friday of the year.

These days, most people take on other forms of resolutions during Lent instead of fast and abstinence. They fast from eating ice cream or abstain from cussing. Snore. Hey, America: we should probably be cussing less and eating less ice cream anyway. Do people really eat much ice cream in February? Lent is supposed to be hard. It is to bring you into focus on the resurrection of Jesus Christ and His promise of salvation. It is not a diet plan! That’s why some people decide that their Lenten resolutions aren’t so much to give something up as it is to take on something new: going to daily Mass, making a contribution to a charitable organization, praying a rosary, volunteering with an outreach program, etc. We are to do things for the Lord, not to cut back on the amount of text messages we send (unless of course, you are so reliant on texting that it would be genuine mortification to do so)

For the last few years, I decided to take on a large penitential sacrifice and to give up meat for all of Lent. Last year’s resolution was as follows:

(1) Giving up meat for all of lent.
(2) Adding 1 hour of adoration or Mass per week.
(3) No snacks from the vendor at work.
(4) Make some charitable donations to worthy causes.

I used the traditional understanding of Carne-Vale, which was that warm-blooded animals are the ones made of meat– which is how we get the great Catholic loophole that fish aren’t made of meat. It’s really not as hard as it sounds, though by Holy Week, the prospect of eating one more iota of tilapia is pretty unappealing.

This year, I am going to do something different instead. Instead of abstinence, I am going to do a 40-day fast, add 1 hour of Mass or adoration per week, and make some charitable donations. I will fast according to the standard rules of fasting: The Church defines this as one meal a day, and two smaller meals which if added together would not exceed the main meal in quantity. The fast is broken by eating between meals and by drinks which could be considered food (milk shakes, but not milk). Alcoholic beverages do not break the fast; however, they seem contrary to the spirit of doing penance.

Besides that, I’m looking forward to spending time in quiet prayer or adoration this lent. I’ve written before than I’m not a very good pray-er, and I hope to take this chance to improve on that with a little practice.

Have a blessed and fruitful lent, gentle reader. I’ll pray that you can grow in holiness, please do the same for me.

Last week I joined a Facebook group called “Keep the ‘Saint’ in St. Valentine’s Day”. For many years now, it’s been trendy for curmudgeons like myself to say that people need to “Keep Christ in Christmas” or even “Keep Mass in Christmas”. And I know some people who bemoan the drunken slobber of St. Patrick’s Day—which good Saint Patrick himself would not even recognize.

But Valentine is a bit of a lost saint. We celebrate his day by goading men into buying impossibly-out-of-season and overly-expensive flowers, boxes of chocolate candy, expensive dinners and heart-shaped jewelry that bears a strange resemblance to a person’s backside (Nota Bene: Gents, if every kiss actually begins with jewelry, then you might be in a relationship with a prostitute. I’m sorry that I had to be the one to tell you this). And none of it has anything to do with the actual Saint Valentine, whose day we celebrate today.

Yes, there actually was a Saint Valentine. Several actually—martyrs all, and all are honored on February 14. Back in the era of Late Antiquity, the name “Valentine” was a common name for boys. The name comes from the word for valor; a fitting name for Christian martyrs.

But February 14 is not a group-celebration for all the Valentine men; it points to one Saint in particular—St. Valentine of Rome. He was a physician and a priest—there is some evidence that he was also a bishop, but time has made his episcopacy somewhat unverifiable.

The 3rd Century Roman emperor Claudius II only reigned over the empire for 2 years, but those two years were bent on military power. Claudius II would lead attacks on the Goths and the Gauls, each with swift and decisive success. Claudius II believed that Roman soldiers should be unmarried men, since men with wives are distracted by their obligations at home. This did not, however, stop the Roman soldiers from falling in love—and wanting to marry the beautiful Mediterranean women of the Empire.

Father Valentine in Rome would perform weddings for the lovestruck couples, in bold defiance of the orders of the Emperor. He also ministered to Christians persecuted by the Roman government, defying the decrees of the Empire to do the Lord’s work, no matter what it cost him.

And ultimately, it cost him his life.

Father Valentine was arrested, dragged to a Roman court and threatened with his life if he did not renounce his Christian faith. Valentine, again boldly defiant in loyal service to the Lord, refused to abandon Jesus Christ. He was condemned, clubbed and beheaded, going to his eternal reward on February 14 in the year 269. He was buried in a roadside cemetery near modern-day Tivoli, where his body remained until 1836, when his bones were dug up and transferred to (interestingly and inexplicably) to the Whitefriar Church in Dublin, Ireland by the papal decree of Pope Gregory XVI.

Some historians and martyrologies separate St. Valentine of Rome and St. Valentine of Terni, others do not distinguish their stories. Truth be told, there is not a lot of verifiable data on either man other than the pious traditions that conflate their stories (and perhaps some of the stories of other Valentines), and scholars sometimes have a hard time sorting out who’s who. This doesn’t bother me a bit. From what I know of the Valentine martyrs of the era, they wouldn’t mind standing as examples that point people to Christ today, even if they do get a little mixed together. At least, I hope they wouldn’t mind.

Because of his unwavering work for the poor, persecuted, and the young-and in-love, Saint Valentine of Rome is the patron saint of young people, engaged couples, apiarists and married couples. He is a patron against epilepsy, against fainting and against plague. Valentine is also the patron saint of greeting card manufacturers, for understandable reasons.

A very old pagan celebration called Lupercalia was a Roman ritual to the god Lupercus, where sacrificing dogs, goats and vestal virgin priestesses while lining up young girls and women to be publicly whipped by essentially-naked men (covered only by strategically-placed goat skins)—all of which would ensure health and fertility for another year. During the festival, young women would place their names in a large urn. The young men would draw a name from the urn and then be romantically linked with that young woman for the following year in honor of the sex and fertility goddess Februata Juno. Lupercalia lasted for several days, beginning on February 15. The festival was Christianized in the 5th Century, with the pagan practices suppressed, while an emphasis on the godly lives of saints like Valentine replaced the carnal practices of Lupercalia.

There is also a belief arising in the middle-ages that mid-way through February is where young birds find their lifelong mates—an appropriate symbol for the lifelong love of Christian marriage, and a convenient tie-in for the feast day of a martyr who gave his life marrying young couples. So men would ask ladies for their love on St. Valentine’s Day. The oldest known Valentine’s Day card is a letter from the year 1477—a photo of the card and its text is reproduced on the Fisheaters website. Surprisingly, it does not accompany a lollipop or a small package of Lik-M-Aid sugar, and does not appear to be passed out at a candy infused eight-year-old’s school party, but is a breathy letter from a young woman to a man—both secretly in love. It implores: “Right reverent and worshipful and my right well-beloved valentine, I recommend me unto you full heartedly, desiring to hear of your welfare, which I beseech Almighty God long for to preserve unto his pleasure and your hearts desire.” Hardly the “TEXT ME” of those Tums-flavored heart candies that I love so much.

And let’s leave Cupid out of this (pretty please, wayward AmericanCatholic.org?). While it’s fun to think of fat flying babies, Cupid is a pagan god, not a Christian symbol of love. I hardly think St. Valentine would approve of how the false god got so intertwined with the day of his martyrdom. You understand, right?

Pope Paul VI dropped St. Valentine’s Day from the universal calendar in 1969. The canonical iconoclasm of the 1960’s had many calendar casualties, most of whom have been largely forgotten by the world in 40 short years. But the Valentine-Industrial complex of florists, candy makers, Hallmark cards, Italian restaurants and chain jewelry shops have preserved this saint’s legacy longer than others who have almost been totally forgotten in a single generation, like Saints Philomena, Ursula and Wilgefortis. *sigh*

Today is Saint Valentine’s Day. It is a day to celebrate the happy bonds of Christian love and service to the Lord. Take a moment to thank the Lord for the love in your life, or to as Him to show you the direction towards that love—be it married, single or consecrated religious, and to do it like St. Valentine did—in steadfast fidelity to Jesus Christ.

St. Valentine, pray for us!

Not long ago, I gave some friends of mine a little bottle of holy water as a present on the anniversary of their son’s (my Godson’s) baptism. They said they appreciated the gift, but looked at me blankly as to what to do with the water. I stammered out that people use it to bless themselves and their children and that some people cook with it. I should have anticipated the question. But the truth is that I didn’t really have any good tips as to what to do with the water. And as a sacramental object, I’m sure the parents weren’t even sure how to get rid of the water. Sorry, friends!

Holy water is a confusing item. People don’t know much about it or what to do with it. The cinematic evidence shows that vampires shy away from it, but most people don’t really worry about vampires these days. Not to mention that garlic is usually available, even in non-Catholic homes. So what else do people do with it?

Catholic churches have the little bowls just inside the doors to the nave—sometimes on the wall (like in the photo to the left), or sometimes on a pedestal, or sometimes (and IMHO, regrettably) in a pool the size of a Jacuzzi tub.

Catholics dip their fingers into the water and use the wet fingers to make the sign of the cross. Growing up, I was told that it was to “remind us of our baptism”. A phrase like that doesn’t make much sense to the modern Cradle-Catholic, since we were baptized as infants before we can actually remember the event. But I think that the phrase “remind us of our baptism” should be understood in the old Hebrew sense of the words, where remembering isn’t an intellectual activity as much as it’s an emotional one—I think we’re to remember with our hearts rather than our heads.

In baptism, our sins (even our original sin) is washed from our soul. Catholics (like most mainstream Protestant denominations) profess one baptism for the forgiveness of sins, which means that we only receive that sacrament one time. After that, it’s up to us to keep our souls as clean as possible. Remember your baptism– that may be as holy as you’ll ever be again!

Some people also splash a little water on the ground for the poor souls in Purgatory. I started doing this a couple years ago, hoping that it would bring souls closer to Christ in Heaven. But it’s also been a weekly reminder that I will also face my end one day, and when I do, I should be ready for it.

Most churches have a supply tank of holy water somewhere in the building where people can take a little home with them. The indispensable website Fisheaters has a suggestion for how to turn a liquor bottle into a to-go container for holy water, but I think their suggestion is a little hokey. I’ve read about people who reuse pickle jars, people who recycle 5-gallon buckets (!), and people who buy little plastic bottles in Catholic bookstores for the purpose. I use a repurposed white-wine-vinegar bottle because it’s got a shaker top that makes sprinkling easier.

At home, people use it for a variety of things. My mother has these little ceramic basins in a few rooms of my folks’ house that are supposed to be filled with holy water. In all the years that I’ve seen them hanging there, I’ve never actually seen them filled with a drop of water, but it is not uncommon for Catholic families to have a little font by their front door so the family can bless themselves as they go out into the world, or in each bedroom so people can bless themselves as part of their nightly prayers.

It’s not uncommon to put a few splashes of holy water into the saucepot when you’re cooking the family meal, though I admit that I’ve never done this myself. I use a little holy water here and there around the house when I’m cleaning. I sprinkle a little in the bedroom, that each night I remember the blessings of the day; I sprinkle a little at my desk in our home-office, that my work is a blessing to the Lord and to his people; I sprinkle a little in the kitchen, that God will bless our food for the nourishment of our bodies and the sustenance of our souls.

I sprinkle a little holy water in our vegetable garden from time to time, praying that we never go hungry. I sprinkle a little in the flowerbed by the front door, that God’s blessings always give us a happy return home. Every now and then, I sprinkle a little bit on the dog—a blessing he doesn’t seem to appreciate for some reason.

Parents often sprinkle a little holy water on their children’s heads at night, that God would bless them with happy and holy lives. Parents might sprinkle a little holy water on their children to see if it cuts their skin—as a test of whether or not the kids are little demons after all.

I bet that parents of 2-year-olds go through a LOT of holy water.

There’s nothing magical about the stuff though. Holy water is a “sacramental” of the Catholic Church, which means that it’s a religious tool; it is a sacred sign that signifies effects obtained through the Church’s intercession. Like all sacramentals, they are worthless without the prayers of the church and user, and totally worthless if they do not ultimately point to Jesus Christ. They are tangible ways of asking the Lord to bless us. Sacramentals are devices to bring us closer to the Lord, to repel the devil and his ilk, and to prepare our souls for God’s grace—but they are not magical talismans. They (like us) are nothing without God.

My parish has a stainless steel holy water tank like the one pictured to the right tucked back in the side door of the sacristy. I think that for a lot of people, finding an industrial-looking can (that bears a strange resemblance to a restaurant stock-pot) kind of spoils some illusion of where holy water comes from. I think people assume that there’s some gold-plated natural spring under the sanctuary altar. Alas, there is not. Holy water is usually just tap water with salt added to it, then fortified with the prayers of a priest.

The salt it, ostensibly, to keep the water from going sour from sitting around. But glancing into the dishes by the church door, you can see that there’s often a little funk in the water. I choose not to let that funk bother me, but it’s kind of icky. At home, you can dispose of sour holy water the same way you’d dispose of any sacramental: by returning it to the earth. I don’t wear a scapular, but people who do tell me that they wear out after regular wear—so people dig a little hole and bury the scapular. Holy water probably doesn’t need a hole dug unless your lawn is paved, just pour it into the earth to dispose of it.

In any way, that’s the gig with holy water. I recommend that people keep a little bottle in their house and bless themselves with it from time to time.

Other resources:
The Catechism of the Catholic Church: Sacramentals
Angelus magazine, July 1986, reprinted on catholictradition.org: Holy Water a Means of Spiritual Wealth
Catholic Encyclopedia: Sacramentals
Catholic Encyclopedia: Holy Water
Fisheaters: Introduction to Sacramentals
Fisheaters: Holy Water

Hello! Did you think I forgot about you, gentle reader? Rest assured; I did not.

My attention has been divided lately while embarking on a new career and vocation. And I hope you’ll excuse my absence. I’ve been pouring pretty much all of my time into that effort.

WhollyRoaminCatholic.com has been a (sporadic) project of mine since early 2008, and I’ve resigned myself to the fact that it will always be a sporadic project. I’ve had blogs of one form or another pretty much since 2001. When blogger.com came out with their blogging software, I was among the earliest people on planet earth to use their tool (member #189 if I recall correctly). Over the years, I’ve learned all the right ways to build readership through short, poignant regular posting; I’ve learned how to write creatively and personally, well punctuated with clever graphics and interesting links. And back when the Google Empire was just a honest tool with spiders who didn’t take money for page placement, I used to have a fair amount of Google ‘cred.

And despite all the evidence that nothing builds readership and a valuable website like frequent posting— I have to admit that I don’t think this site will ever be a regularly updated website.

Sorry to disappoint, gentle reader.

If you like this site and check it every day, then the chances are that you’re going to be disappointed most days. My best advice is that you add the RSS feed to your feed reader (after all these years in the internets, I just learned how to use a reader about 2 weeks ago). Or if you’re a person who uses the Twitter, you can add @WhollyRoamin to your list of people that you follow. I don’t Tweet my Twitter very much and keep it as a tool to promote this site, so I promise that I won’t clog your Twitter feed with pictures of my lunch or updates about the price of gasoline. I keep it focused on the business of WhollyRoaminCatholic.com.

Still, I resolve to post more on this site. It’s my goal to help Catholics be better Catholics to the best of my ability, and one part of this goal is to write lengthy posts with clumsy grammar. St. Lawrence is the patron of this blog, and through his intercession, I hope to be steadfast in serving Christ and the Church.

St. Lawrence, pray for us!