Mommy's Heading Off to School! What Will We Do??

That is my beautiful wife. She is so amazing. She is definitely the heart of this family. Even more, she is the principle of organization around here; she keeps all the rest of us from going nutty. You can always tell when Mommy is out of the house: the kids are bouncing all over the furniture and Josefina is who-knows-where while Daddy is reading (or writing) and is oblivious to everything around him. Every once in awhile, Daddy looks up to make sure nobody is on the floor bleeding; otherwise he's satisfied that all is in order and returns to his work.

Well, it's not quite that bad, but....

I am very proud of this wonderful woman. She is a certified Montessori teacher and is the Directress of the Elementary Program at the John XXIII Montessori Children's Center here in Front Royal. Eileen spent three intense summers at Loyola University in Baltimore to earn her certification. She came home on weekends. We had various arrangements to keep the house from falling apart while she was gone during the week; Nana came from California when Josefina was a baby. God bless Nana!!!

But Josefina is not a baby anymore. Last year we did just Daddy and the kids, but we had the daughter of a friend come in every afternoon to make sure the house wasn't falling apart. And so, Mommy got her certification. Hooray! Last year it felt like we were all done. No more crazy summers.

Well, almost....

Mommy can upgrade her certification to a full blown Masters in Education by taking some intensive courses in Baltimore for three and a half weeks this summer (and "writing a few papers" - heh, heh!). Of course I want her to do it. My wife already has a Masters in English Literature, her certification, and her teaching position. But why not top it off with the M.Ed.? It may come in handy, and besides, she deserves it. As I said, I am so proud of my wife. She is at the vanguard of the development of alternative educational institutions, resources of learning that work in cooperation with the needs and educational choices of parents and families. In this way she can educate our own children and also participate in providing the Montessori environment as a resource for the whole community, thanks to the John XXIII Center's uniquely designed programs. [I should put a link here to their website: http://www.john23mcc.org/]

We are especially blessed, because Eileen really is the heart of our home and family, and at the same time she is able to share her talents as a professional educator with the wider community. It is also a blessing because, in our present circumstances, her income is necessary to help keep a roof over our heads. That is another reason why the M.Ed. might be useful somewhere down the road. After all, the only thing we know is that the road is leading us to a good place; we have learned in the past 15 years that it has many twists and turns. And that God is the one who is driving.

So, off she goes to Baltimore. Tomorrow.

HELP!!!!

Wait, calm down. It's only for about four weeks. And she'll be home on the weekends. All we have to do is get through the weeks. Daddy and the kids. This year we're doing it without any help. The kids are older, after all. John Paul is 14. He and Agnese can pretty much run the house. They can even cook, which is great. It means we'll have food. Josefina, of course, is four and a half. The most challenging task will be for all of us to look after her. But even she has begun to mature to the point where she might actually listen to me if I tell her not to do something.

Needless to say, we'll probably watch a lot of videos. Hopefully, there will also be plenty of playing outside.

In any case, we have to do everything we can to make sure that Eileen doesn't have to worry about things at home for the next four weeks. I expect she is going to have a lot of work to do. The kids and I are ready. We'll make it work, with God's help. But we will all miss her.

I'll be posting more on this adventure as it unfolds.

The Mother of God and the Holy Spirit.

Veni Sancte Spiritus, Veni Per Mariam.

So I pray, many times during the course of the day. It is an invocation worth pondering on the eve of Pentecost. At the very center of the mystery of salvation, there is a woman.

It was the Holy Spirit who preserved her from original sin and from all sin. It was the Holy Spirit who dwelt within her heart from the first moment of her conception, who taught her from her first thoughts to seek God's will and ponder His word, and who inspired her to consecrate herself wholly to the Divine plan. It was the Holy Spirit who gave her a sense of wonder in the presence of God, and that dedication and self-abandonment which she expressed when she called herself the "lowly servant" the "handmaid" of the Lord.

It was the Holy Spirit who came upon her in that first, secret Pentecost that occurred in her heart and in her womb when she said "Yes" to the word of the angel Gabriel, when her loving obedience overcame the selfish disobedience of Eve. The Word, the Only-Begotten Son of the Father, took flesh in the womb of the Virgin Mary by the power of the Holy Spirit. And it was the Holy Spirit that sustained and deepened the "Yes" of Mary's heart all the way to the Cross, a "yes" that accompanied the redeeming love of Jesus offered for the whole human race, and therefore a "yes" that embraces each of us personally.

So it is no surprise that we find the Mother of God in the upper room with the disciples praying for the gift of the Holy Spirit and receiving Him anew in the birth of the Church. And now the Virgin Mary, reigning in glory with her Son, prays for us to receive the gift of the Spirit. We receive the grace of the Spirit because we receive Jesus Christ. Jesus became man in the history of the world through the maternal mediation of Mary, and so today He takes flesh in our lives through the maternal mediation of Mary. Jesus comes to us in the invitation to love that shapes the moments of our lives, a shaping that passes in a mysterious but deeply human, attentive, and motherly way through the heart of Mary.

Mary is the Mediatrix of all graces. Thus her involvement in our lives is not just a distant fact of the past. It is a reality of the present, a reality of this moment, a living reality for my life. Mary, my Mother, my Mother. Through her Christ makes Himself present in our lives now, and so through her, the lowly servant of the Lord, we receive the gift of the Spirit in Christ, now, each of us, in all of our many circumstances.

How can I imagine such tenderness, so extensive and yet so personal? And yet it is Love that makes it possible. And so I turn to Mary, always, with confidence. She is my Mother.

Veni Sancte Spiritus, Veni Per Mariam.
Come Holy Spirit. Come through Mary.

Openness To Conversion

For tonight, just some words from Fr. Julian Carron, International "Responsabile" of the movement of Comunione e Liberazione, from this year's Spiritual Exercises of the Fraternity of CL, which I am reading in these days:

We feel no greater need than that of asking, praying for the openness to 
conversion. Each of us knows very well how we resist this conversion, how 
often our heart is hardened, how much we are unwilling deep down to let 
ourselves be attracted by Him. The more we are aware of this, of this war 
we are engaged in, and of our fragility and weakness, the more we feel the 
need to ask the Spirit that He be the One to wash what is soiled, water what 
is arid, and heal what is wounded. 

Divine Mercy and the Gift of the Holy Spirit

"For the sake of His sorrowful Passion, have Mercy on us and on the whole world."

I pray this prayer every day, when I say the chaplet of Divine Mercy during the three o'clock hour. According to St. Faustina, Jesus urged the practice of pausing every day at 3:00, even if only for a moment, and remembering His Passion, His agony, and His abandonment. He promised to grant great graces in this hour. He recommended praying the chaplet.

And so this time has become a mid-afternoon prayer time pause for me. I spend some moments in silence before the image, dwelling on His mercy from my heart. Then I bring my needs and petitions before Him. Then I pray the chaplet, and try to unite myself spiritually to the offering of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, because it is through the Eucharist that I can pray the prayer at the beginning of each decade: "Eternal Father, I offer you the Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity of Your dearly beloved Son Our Lord Jesus Christ, in atonement for our sins and those of the whole world."

These prayers contain so much about the love of the Father, the truth about our sins, and our total dependence on the mystery of Christ's sacrifice. But sometimes I have wondered: where is the Holy Spirit in this prayer? Then I thought (and this is just my own opinion), that Mercy itself refers to the Holy Spirit. Through the redeeming sacrifice of the Son of God made man, the Father and the Son breathe forth the Spirit upon the world, and into the hearts of those who receive God's saving love.

The Divine Mercy focuses on the "blood and water" that flowed forth from the Heart of Jesus. But as St. John tells us, "there are three that bear witness...the Spirit, and the water, and the blood; and these three are one" (1John 5:7-8). In some sense, can we not think of the Mercy of God as the gift of His Spirit?

Then, the prayer of the chaplet becomes a Trinitarian prayer: "For the sake of His [the Son's] sorrowful Passion, [Father] have Mercy [send Your Holy Spirit] on us and on the whole world." I don't see any reason why it cannot be understood in this way, but the more important thing is that I know that when I pray the chaplet and implore God's Mercy for me and for the world, I am begging for the grace of the Holy Spirit, by which God works the miracle of His Mercy in me. I want to lift up my heart and immerse myself in the mystery of the Holy Trinity, of the God who is Love, and who is my only hope.

And I beg for that Love to be poured out as healing mercy on a poor world that is so broken and so full of longing and suffering and deception and violence--a world that I feel inside my own heart, crying out for a love it does not know, crying out for the Presence of Christ to radiate love within it through me. Come Holy Spirit, make me an instrument of God's love and mercy.

[For information on the chaplet of Divine Mercy and the devotion made known through St. Faustina, see this link: http://www.ewtn.com/devotionals/mercy/dmmap.htm]

A New Life in the Holy Spirit

During this week, Christians remem- ber the original "novena"--the nine days when the disciples of Jesus gathered in the upper room with Mary and prayed for the promised gift of the Holy Spirit. We recall in these days the birth of the Church in all the fullness that Christ intended her to possess.

We are also urged to recall that as Christians each of us has received the gift of the Spirit, and the vocation to bear witness to Christ as members of His Body, the Church. We ask for a deeper outpouring of the Holy Spirit in our lives. The Holy Spirit dwells in us and is at work in us.

How often do we hear these words and find only a vague significance in them?

Oh yes, the Holy Spirit. That's important. Why? Because the Church says so. On to the next "thing."

Wait. Stop.

It is very easy to think of Christianity as a bunch of stuff we have to do (or not do), because God and the Church say so, and then try to negotiate and integrate this rather burdensome collection of stuff into our lives. This week is a good time for me to ask myself: "Is this how I live my faith? Is this how I present it to others?"

The rest of the world often views Christianity as a collection of external rules that more or less interfere with real life, that is, with the part of life that interests and engages me as a person. What a grim business! No wonder people are not attracted to it.

I must beware that I do not allow this kind of moralism to become my own view of Christianity. I must remember that Christianity is a new life, a supernatural life, a life of communion with God. Through baptism, I have been given a participation in the Divine life, and through grace this life grows within me and transforms me. God gives Himself to me; He draws me into a personal relationship with Himself; He leads me to my destiny which is to share forever in His glory, to behold and to love forever the One who is the fullness of all goodness, to belong to Him forever.

Eternal glory has already begun, secretly, in the very heart of this ordinary life, because God dwells in me, and God is at work in my life. But why am I so dull and unaware? Because I need the light of the Holy Spirit to recognize the path He has laid out before me. Christianity is not external to the real concerns of my life. It illuminates them and opens me up to their true meaning. But this only happens if I live the relationship with God that He continually desires to deepen throughout my life.

And how can I live and grow in a relationship with Eternal Love except by asking for Him to change me, asking for Him to empower me to love Him more, asking Him to enable me to see the Church as the instrument of His love, and her teachings as the road of love that really corresponds to my life? I want Him to "come" into my life, deepen my relationship with Him, and make me more aware of His presence. This is why I must ask, continually, for the gift of the Holy Spirit to be renewed within me. This is why my whole heart has to be a living, loving, begging prayer for God's grace.

Come Holy Spirit.
Come Holy Spirit.
Come Holy Spirit.

Summertime and the Holy Spirit

Well, it's summertime. How did that happen so fast?
Those trees were all bare a few months ago, when I was blogging in February. Now we are surrounded by lush green. It's 7:30 PM and it still feels like the afternoon.

The kids are home every day now. Montessori school is out for the summer, so they are home. Every day. All day long. All five of them. The door slams over and over. Feet flap all over the "kid highways" through the living room and kitchen. Josefina's peeping voice is always saying this or that. Mommy is in and out, still working on closing down things at the school. And I plop myself in the living room, in the middle of everything--which is where I like it best--and allow the surroundings to blend with my own research. When I pick up the internet I open a window on the whole world, right here in the living room in the midst of my children. But in a profound sense the same thing happens when I open a book. A world of understanding is contained in those pages, and something much richer than digital imagery is required to visualize it: the human imagination. I can easily get lost in these worlds, and the hubhub that surrounds me is actually congenial. I love being surrounded by people when I think. I also like being interrupted, which is a good thing because it happens plenty.

I was just interrupted now by the presentation of some crayon drawings by the "little girls." Everyone is covered with mosquito bites. Later on, maybe we'll pop out and see the fireflies.

These are the days between the Ascension and Pentecost. In the Church's prayer, there is all that wonderful expectation of the coming of the Holy Spirit. It gives form to these days. How do I listen to His inspirations? I feel so dry, sometimes. Where is God? He is inside the needs and tasks of this day, in the children and their concerns, in the time Eileen and I have together, in the rhythm of my work and prayer. When I pray, "come, Holy Spirit," I am asking Him to manifest Himself; to enrich my awareness of His presence. He calls out and gives Himself through the invitation to love contained in the most ordinary circumstance. His invitations say, "Love all the way. Do not stop at your own satisfaction. Seek the Source of what attracts you, and--in affirming the goodness of whatever is given in the circumstances--allow yourself to be embraced by the Source." Often our situation seems dull, repetitive, and fruitless. Here especially we must call out to the Holy Spirit, and listen to the silence in which He whispers the secrets of Divine Love.

Come, Holy Spirit.

Where Are We From? Part III

See that map? That is the Italian peninsula. It is a collection of towns and regions that are passionate about their own identity. For the past 150 years, it has been known as the "nation" of Italy. Time has brought a certain measure of unity. Everyone speaks the Tuscan dialect (to some extent), which is the "national language." The "Italians" all unite behind the Azzuri  (Blues), the national soccer team, in international competitions. Government? Heh heh. That's, um... complicated.

When I was growing up, I proudly considered myself an "Italian American." I didn't realize that the mix of regions in my family background was a phenomenon that could only happen in America. Almost all Americans of European ancestry are an ethnic mixture. That's clear enough when one has, say, and "Italian" father and an "Irish" mother (a not-uncommon combination in the Northeast urban centers of immigration--in fact, my wife is part Irish). But it is usually true also of those who claim "100%" heritage. Ethnic and cultural heritage in Europe are very compact. The ethnic neighborhoods of America mixed peoples of these compact regions together, because--after all--in the great New World the common elements became sources of subcultural unity. As a result, the second generation saw a great deal of "intermarriage" between kids who never would have met in the old country.

It was something of a surprise for me when I went to Italy at the age of 30 to study. People asked me where my ancestors were from, and I said, "Italy!" They replied, "oh, but where are they from?" Turns out they were from a lot of different places. "Italians" are from Milano or Brescia or Roma or from a foreign country called Sicily. Nobody is from "Italy," at least, not really. Even in New York, it was quite a scandal in my grandmother's Neapolitan family when she began seeing my Sicilian grandfather. Sicilians were not paisani; they were strange, alien creatures.

It turns out that my ancestors are from all over southern Italy. Some of them were probably Greek (which might explain the odd spelling of the name "Janaro" with a "J"--although there are other possibilities; the French were in southern Italy too). In Italy I learned about the long and deep lines of my roots. For Americans, lineage often fades into a mist if we try to seek beyond the first person to land on our shores. But in Europe it is not unusual to stand in places that are over a thousand years old, and it becomes possible to think of one's self as part of a very long line. Still, it is distinctively American to be an intersection of various lines that never would have met anywhere else.

I have my roots in a distinctive historical phenomenon: the New York Italian American immigrant experience of the late 19th century. I am also third generation American born, which means that the diverse socioeconomic backgrounds of my ancestors had time to rise to the level of the middle class families of my parents in the America of the 1950s. In a sense, I am a "New Yorker," and to this day I feel at home in the city of my birth. But I have adopted a new home.

The Shenandoah Valley and Northern Virginia are where I have built my life. I went to school here, and then devoted my career to building institutions here. I established my family here, and it is here that I own the little piece of property that I call my home. This is the place that I miss when I am far away. This is my children's native place. And my parents have lived in this area for 22 years; here in Virginia they have become grandparents.

It is in Virginia that my history, and the history of my family, continues.

Where Are We From? Part II

So, where am we “from”?

Human beings are body and soul. Factors of time and space shape who we are. The environment we are "born" into, and the events that happen to us in early life enter into the makeup of our personal history, and shape particular features of our memory, temperament, and inclinations. At the same time, our freedom enables us to adapt to a new environment, and to develop dispositions, habits, and affections that enable our personality to embrace a "new home." This new place can become more "ours" than the land of our birth. We, in turn, become more identified with it. Great figures of our own time illustrate this. When we think of Mother Teresa, we think of India and Calcutta--her adopted home and a land that claims her as one of their own--even though her life began thousands of miles away, in the entirely different society, culture, and climate of Eastern European Albania.

It even seems possible for human beings to “belong” in a profound way to more than one place, to “contain” different places internally as elements of their own identity and of the way others relate to them. This is true of anyone who has gone forth from their homeland to establish a new place, such as the settlers and pioneers of the New World.

Indeed, various people, with varying moral qualities, illustrate this human phenomenon. Consider Napoleon Bonaparte. His life is bound permanently to the history of France, and yet he was born and grew up in the (at that time) decidedly un-French island of Corsica. Certainly, rulers (especially conquerors) often exhibit this quality, while they in turn make elements of their native culture into formative features of their adopted culture. William the Conqueror brought his Norman identity to English soil. Prince Albert brought the Christmas tree from his native Austria to England in the 19th century, and from there it made its way into our homes today. I find myself inclined to consider historical personages because there is evidence of their awareness of place and their impact on other places

But on a much broader scale, all of America is a fabric woven from the experiences of other places which so many brought here with them when they came. Most of us have a varied ancestry, and grew up in homes that blended various cultural traditions. American society itself is (relatively speaking) “young,” which is one of the reasons why we are often less attached to a particular place that many peoples of older cultures, and perhaps why we are more willing to change the places where we are, as well as move about from place to place. And yet, America as a whole is “one place” (in spite of the very distinctive history and characteristics of certain locations). I know that one of the things that amazes a European visitor to the United States is its relative unity of life and culture over vast distances.

As a place, our country is still developing its identity during this epoch of mass transportation and the contraction of space that results from it. As I said, we are young. As we move about from place to place, jumping over thousands of miles, most of us carry family and cultural traditions that are only a few generations old.

By contrast, even the ordinary Italian of my generation often grew up in a region or a city or even a neighborhood where his ancestors lived for hundreds of years. I have a friend whose family has a large house in Ligouria. In its library are documents including a verification of ownership signed and sealed by Holy Roman Emperor Rudolph II in the 16th century. A place that would be a historic landmark in the United States is, in Italy, just someone’s house.

These reflections on what it means to “belong to a place” certainly suggest that a sense of one’s “place” has an impact on how one perceives the world. It’s all part of my trying to figure out how to answer the question, “where am I from?” Traditionally the question has been phrased as “what am I?” I am an American. I know that for sure (and if I ever had any doubts, a year of living in Europe cured me of them). But how much more specific can I be? Am I a Virginian? After thirty years I would like to say so, but there are many Virginians who would disagree. To them, I’m just another transplanted Yankee. Why? I don't think of myself as a "Yankee." But I was born in New York and grew up in Pennsylvania. Is there something "yankeeish" about me?

To be continued.

Roots in the Valley: The Valley League

It's late. I'm tired. I'll continue the story of where I am from tomorrow. Tonight I'll just mention briefly the event that, for John Paul and me, has signaled the beginning of summer since he was seven years old: the opening night of Valley League Baseball.

The Shenandoah Valley is home to one of several special summer leagues for college players. They are sponsored by Major League Baseball and use wood bats (which means a lot to me--a baseball bat is not supposed to go "ping"!). Promising college players from all around the country come to play in the two month summer league. It means that for two months we have a real home town baseball team right here in Front Royal: the illustrious Front Royal Cardinals. The games are fun, admission is cheap, the seats are great, and we have a nice little ballpark of almost minor league quality. And it's only five minutes from our house. John Paul and I have gone to games regularly since 2004. Mommy and the girls have come a few times, but they don't like it much. We love it.

Actually this does relate to the theme of heritage. It is a piece of this small town that is part of my son's life. It's something he will always remember. Baseball has something to do with roots, as I have learned from my own curious allegiances. We have the Washington Nationals. But this is really special: real baseball right in town. Front Royal Cardinals' season is something unique.

Where Are We From? Part I

So, where are you from?

This has become a difficult question for many of us to answer who live in the developed world. And it is especially a problem in the United States of America, where migration is part of the national tradition of people continually in search of a better life. Here it has been common for generations for people to establish themselves and make their mark upon the world in places very far removed from where they were born and raised. Historically, the movement of population in the U.S. was broadly from East to West. But the post-World War II generation saw the development of the automobile mass transportation network, passenger air travel, and mass communications. In the past 60 years our country is turning more and more into a place where everyone is from all over, and where they presently live may not be a place where they intend to set down any permanent roots.

I have watched this phenomenon develop over the course of my own life, and have experienced it myself. I have also participated in what seems to be something of an unreflective, spontaneous effort by groups of people to reestablish roots in particular places. Common initiatives and commitment to institutions often establish communities where people’s lives are invested in the place where they are. The Janaros seem to be setting down roots by living a deeper level of community with others who have come together to build or take part in the various educational institutions that have found a home in the Shenandoah Valley of Northern Virginia.

Today we are all very used to the idea of mobility defining our relationship to place. We hardly reflect on the fact that, in the history of the human race, this mobility is a very new kind of freedom. Nor do we give much consideration to how this affects our psychological sense of internal coherence. We are, after all, bodily beings who are “naturally” in only one place at a time, and tend to take in and appropriate (“make our own”) the environment that surrounds us. This must have some impact on the experience of people who live in constantly changing environments.

What are the potential positive elements of this impact? What creative resources are available to the human person to integrate this experience? History has always known instances of the “cosmopolitan” person, rich in wisdom and sensibility about diverse peoples and cultures with whom they have lived. But such persons, historically, were exceptional, often educated and wealthy, and without family ties. Our age is an age of cosmopolitan families and cities, with mobile populations. What this does to the human need for building sustained relationships and community is a matter worthy of further consideration.

These reflections will be continued. In the next entry, I will talk of my own experience of being born as a New York Italian American, and then being transplanted to Western Pennsylvania, Virginia, and–of all places–Italy itself. And why I think it’s important for my children to grow up with a sense that the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia is their home, even if someday they live on the moon.

Fourteen Years of Children

I was 34 years old in 1997. Eileen was 30. We both thought we had seen quite a bit of the world in those days, but nothing had prepared us for the adventure we were plunging into.

I had friends my age who already had six or seven kids. But this was our first. This was supposed to be a "May baby." Eileen was very big and certainly looked ready, but we waited for the mystery to happen, waited eight days. We sat up late at night on the couch, watching videos and eating chips. Labor? No, just gas.

We went to my parents (who still had plenty of spring in their step back then), which was nearer to the hospital. Nothing. We went into Washington, DC for a day of art museums and Ethiopian food. Spicy Ethiopian food. Nothing. We watched Jurassic Park II in a movie theater. Nothing. The kid just wasn't going anywhere.

Finally they told us to come to the hospital for Eileen to be induced. So much for our ideas about natural childbirth. The usual things were done. Labor brought nothing but pain. The head was not dropping down. One thing was clear: this kid had a big head.

So they were going to cut my wife's body open! My precious wife--married less than two years! While they prepped, I paced back and forth and prayed the Rosary. At 34 years old, I didn't think there were any "new experiences" left. This was really new.

I was suited up and ushered into the O.R. where Eileen was, numbed where she needed to be by the epidural but fully awake, with a screen at her chest so she couldn't see what was being done. I held onto her and the doctor and nurses went to work.

I should note that this was supposed to be a girl. We were sure. I owed a debt of gratitude to St. Agnes of Rome, at whose tomb I had prayed for a wife a couple of years before. I promised St. Agnes that I would name my first daughter after her. Eileen and I returned to the tomb on our honeymoon and renewed the promise together. So we just felt sure this was baby Agnes (at this point, we had not thought of the Italian form of the name, "Agnese"). While Eileen was pregnant we called the baby "Agnes." We had no sonogram, but still, we felt sure. And then, the baby had moved for the first time on the Feast of St. Agnes. A Heavenly Sign (NOT!).

The doctor called me to look over the screen to see my baby brought forth. The cord was wrapped twice around the baby's neck. The head was unusually large. This baby never would have made it alive through the birth canal. But modern medicine was finding a way to make everything go smoothly. And I saw the baby emerge from the swabs covering the incision, the head and neck and shoulders and chest and OH MY GOSH IT'S A BOY!

It's a boy! It's a boy!


He was a 9 pound, 4 ounces, a compact little man, screaming his head off and shaking his fists, well formed like a lightweight boxer. We were crying with joy.

And we had a backup name, just in case. John Paul, of course.

It was 3:00 in the morning on June 1, 1997.

I felt as though I had become some strange new being, as if I had been born into a new life. Later that morning, in the nearby church, I kept thinking during the Mass with a mixture of wonder and dread, "I'm a father, I'm a father." I knew he had been with us for nine months, but birth is a great epiphany. A whole new world was set before my eyes, drawing forth the most elemental instincts of tenderness and protectiveness and all the emotions that bolster a new sense of responsibility.

Much has happened in these past 14 years. His head keeps growing, along with the rest of him. John Paul was the only c-section; the girls came naturally. And after 14 years and five children, I expect new experiences every day.

The Good Things Come Slowly

The good things come slowly.

I am featuring again tonight a picture from the grounds of my favorite monastery, Holy Cross Abbey (Cistercians) in Berryville, Virginia. Monks know that good comes from silence, perseverance, the repetition of the same simple gestures, dedication to prayer day by day, month by month, year by year. They know the labor of sowing seeds that others may reap.

I am impatient about good things. I want them fast. I want my acorns to spring into fully formed oak trees. I want my prayers answered, NOW! I forget that one of God's favorite ways of answering a prayer is, "Ask Me again tomorrow."

Occasionally the good is a dramatic and sudden manifestation. God knows we need that sometimes or our weak, distracted nature would lose sight of the good altogether. But even when God works miracles, His deep message to us is, "Trust Me."

The good things grow slowly, with patience and care, if necessary with healing and correction.

So let us not lose patience. Sometimes it seems as if fire rains down on the earth. We feel overwhelmed. But let us tend this little piece of ground, this life that has been given us. Let us sow our seed and tend our shoots with fidelity and dedication to the task in front of us. God will give the growth.

The good things come slowly. But they are the things that endure.

Steps on the Path

I came across some statistical information today that gave me reason for hope. It seems that about 60% of Americans believe in a personal God, with whom it is possible to have some kind of relationship. Another survey reported that 58% of Americans pray every day.

Surveys, of course, leave many questions unanswered. What kind of God? What kind of prayer? How many of the remaining 42% are crying out to God without realizing it?

Still, I am encouraged by the 60%. We live immersed in a noisy popular culture in which emphasis on the presence of God and the need for prayer is ZERO. Evidently, God still makes His presence known and provokes the human heart with the awareness of the need for Him. Even if this awareness is superficial or fleeting in many cases, it still gives me hope.

I expect that anyone who happens upon this blogsite and gives it any attention probably believes in God, or at least wonders about the mystery of God. Of course, most of my readers are already in "the choir"--I am not naive. But I also have friends who are not Catholic or not Christian--friends who don't agree or don't know what to make of the things I say here, but who read nevertheless because they care about me. And perhaps because they find things that they can appreciate in these writings, or things that strike them as worthy of looking at. They know who they are, and they know that I love them. I ask them to stay with me as I reflect on this adventure of being human in a world that I know is not easy to understand.

Moreover, this is the internet. Anyone may come across what I write here. I do not sing for the choir; I sing about who I am, what has been given to me, and what I have discovered about the truth. Everything I say is a testimony--offered with respect for freedom, openness, and awareness of the particularities and burdens of each person's journey in search of the truth. I invite people to walk with me. Let us look at life together and try to help each other.

If you are among those who wonder, even once in a while, what the mystery of reality is all about, then there is something in you that yearns to go deeper. Ask from out of that wonder; ask the questions that it suggests, and ask them with a confidence that that they would not be in your heart if the answers did not exist.

If you believe in a personal God, pray to Him as Someone who is present. You do not give yourself existence. He is making you to "be" right now. He is present, giving you to yourself. Call to mind that Presence.

And why does He make you? For love. Why else? Isn't this what our hearts tell us? That we are loved, and are made to love? So take small steps in love; find a little time to affirm something or someone not for your own advantage, but because of the goodness that makes you forget yourself. Such love leads to God.

This is not some "generic religion" that I am proposing here. Everyone who reads this blog knows that my faith is very specific. These are merely steps on the path of truth. They are steps that Christians sometimes forget to make. I know very well that plenty of Catholics and Christians are messed up and confused.

But it's always possible to take a step forward on the road that leads to the answers you seek, and the joy for which you hope.

Benedict and Kirill: The Future of Europe

We have often heard the voice of Pope Benedict XVI on the importance of a transcendent, Divine foundation for the objective guarantee and constructive force of human rights and human dignity.

In presenting this message to 21st century Europe, however, Benedict has a vitally important collaborator a couple of thousand miles east of Rome. The Russian Orthodox Patriarch of Moscow, Kirill I, has expressed similar observations from his own distinctly Russian perspective.

Today I finally received my copy of Freedom and Responsibility: A Search for Harmony--Human Rights and Personal Dignity, a collection of addresses published by the Moscow Patriarchate in cooperation with the British publishing house of Darton, Longman, and Todd. This book is not yet available in the U.S., which meant paying a little more for postage and ordering it from amazon.uk. But it was worth it.

Kirill's approach is open, clear, direct, and refreshing. He testifies to the perpetual validity of the Christian view of the human being, drawing on the Church Fathers and on Russia's unique experience in the 20th century. It lends particular weight to his words on the dictatorship of relativism:


For the believer who is aware of the problem of the self-determination of the will [in light of the Fall and the human person's need for redemption], the claim that moral anthropo- centrism is a universal principle that should regulate social and personal activity gives cause for doubt. Conscience is an important criterion that helps distinguish between good and evil. It is not by chance that folk wisdom calls the conscience the voice of God, for the moral law placed by God into human nature is known in the voice of conscience. But the voice of conscience can be stifled by sin. Therefore, when making moral choices one must also be guided by external criteria, above all by the commandments given by God....


Unfortunately, today the absolutisation of the State characteristic of modernity is being replaced by the absolutisation of the sovereignty of the individual and his rights without moral responsibility. This absolutisation can destroy the foundations of modern civilisation and lead to its downfall.... Humankind cannot live outside a moral context. No laws can help us keep society viable or put an end to corruption, the misuse of power, the break-up of the family, the abandoning of children, the reduction of the birthrate, the destruction of nature, militant nationalism, xenophobia or the mockery of religious sentiments....


No one contests that a society in which the individual is disdained, in which the State and the collective possess all rights over the person, is unstable and inhumane. But societies in which human rights become an instrument for the emancipation of the instincts, in which the notions of good and evil are confused and driven out by the idea of moral autonomy and pluralism, become equally inhumane. Such societies lose their mechanisms of moral influence on the personality. In civilised society--let us call it so--the balance between these polarities must be maintained. It should base itself on the understanding that each person by nature possesses unchanging value, and at the same time that everyone is called on to grow in dignity and bear civic responsibility before the law and moral responsibility for his actions.

Freedom and Responsibility, pp. 63-65 (my emphasis)

No Boundaries

O this restless life. Searching, searching, searching. That's life. Seeking, asking, begging in front of every circumstance, "Please give me happiness."

Yet I do not want to make it sound like life is always a conscious, neurotic, aching urge that exhausts people with nervous tension. It would be stupid to deny that many people seem quite happy, and would describe themselves as satisfied. Some of them are living in denial. But others are genuinely, reasonably content. Aren't they?

Well...yes and no.

We can attain goals in life, and draw a measure of satisfaction from them. But life doesn't stop. When I achieve what I want, I find new possibilities opening up. The question emerges, "what shall I do next?" It can be a joyful experience, this journey. In fact, it is meant to be. But it keeps moving. It's an adventure, and as long as you are still breathing, you know in your heart that it's not over.

Look at the way you act.

Why do you do things? Because you want something. There is a sense of anticipation, a sense that reality has something to offer. So you choose, you act, and you possess things, enter into relationships, live life. And that sense of anticipation is verified. You have a taste of genuine goodness. But the sense of the possibility of fulfillment only deepens. The desire to live intensifies. To move forward.

Because you want something infinite.

The heart has no boundaries. Yet here we are, in this moment, in the midst of things that are limited. If we try to grasp things and stretch them so that they correspond to the scope of our hearts, we will distort them and ultimately tear them apart. This is violence.

But if we act with the recognition that there is something more, that the goodness of things points to something and promises something that we do not see and cannot attain by our own power, then we act with receptivity, with a need and a question that opens us up to something or Someone who corresponds to our boundless hearts. This is the seed of prayer.

Christians East and West: Our Hope and Prayer

Eastern Christians will immediately recognize that this is an unconventional icon of the Theotokos. It is, in fact, an icon of the Immaculate (Panagia) Heart of Mary, with its imagery and colors taken from the reports of the appearance of the Mother of God to the children of Fatima, Portugal nearly a hundred years ago.

I post this here as an accompaniment to my expression of a sense of urgency for the unity of Christians East and West. My post on Confirmation (Chrismation) provoked some interesting commentary about what divides or appears to some to divide Christians. I believe that as long as the essential elements of the rite are preserved, the celebration of the Holy Mysteries or Sacraments can vary in the rituals that surround them, and in the time and order of their celebration. Eastern and Western Christians can disagree on which form or order of the ritual is more expressive of the meaning of the Mysteries/Sacraments, but they may and ought to respect each other's traditions. It is certainly a blow to Christian unity for Eastern Orthodox Christians to deny the validity of Western (Catholic) Sacraments of Initiation. The Roman Church has always recognized the validity and today even emphasizes the beauty and the theological significance of the Eastern Christian liturgical traditions. This is reflected in the Catechism of the Catholic Church, which presents, together, both the Eastern and Western rituals and practices for the administration of the Holy Mysteries/Sacraments, and explains the essential unity that underlies the various differences. Many Eastern Orthodox churches and theologians, bishops, priests, and lay people concur in the recognition of this essential unity.

I am convinced  that, for ecumenism, Ground Zero is the breach between Eastern and Western Christendom. This is the great divide in Christian Europe, a crack in the earth that runs through the whole second millennium of history between the Greek and Slavic East and the Latin West. Its causes are many and varied. Its healing, I hope, will be one of the great blessings of the third millennium, from which will come forth an energy that will vivify a new evangelization of the world, and a renewal of the roots and identity of Europe and its peoples. I don't know how this unity will be achieved in historical circumstances, but I am certain that God wills it and therefore we must do everything we can in good conscience to foster it. This certainly includes the mutual acceptance and appreciation of the profound bonds that already unite us, as well as respect for the legitimate differences that do not really divide us. It means prayer to the Holy Spirit, and to the Mother of God who is so deeply loved by both East and West, and has shown her abundant blessings to all her children.

At Fatima, the Mother of God hinted that Russia was destined to play a special role in modern history: that Russia's errors would be a source of great sufferings, but its conversion an occasion for a period of peace. And indeed the twentieth century saw those errors and those sufferings. It also saw the beginning of hope, and the first stirrings of an anticipated conversion. Still, today, it is western secularism--the older, weaker, but still dangerous cousin of the atheistic communist monster--that sweeps over the world, and over the ruins of Russia and the still emerging nations of Eastern Europe. Two men have risen to critique secularism's "dictatorship of relativism" in our time, and there is much affinity between them in their personalities, ideas and aspirations: Patriarch Kirill of Moscow and Pope Benedict XVI.

Let us examine ourselves and put aside all unnecessary sources of division. Let us long for unity, and pray to Christ Our God and His Immaculate, All-Holy Mother for a fraternal embrace and a kiss of peace that will heal the wounds of a thousand years and give renewed light to the world.

Free As A Bird

Wouldn't you like to be free as a bird?

I wonder where that expression came from. As I write this, the kids are watching one of those BBC nature videos. The erudite voice of some distinguished British gentleman is telling everyone about the glorious life of animals, which basically consists in sleeping, seeking food, mating, and avoiding predators. And it is a wonderful thing, in its own way, the multitude of diverse ways in which animals all over the world--in all their many colors and shapes and sizes--use their remarkable instincts to seek food, to mate, and to avoid predators; in a word, to live. But it takes a bit of the romance out of my lonely black bird. There is surely much poetry in his sturdy vigil, perched atop a fence post. All the splendor and spontaneity of his instincts are focused on the task of living. For him it means spying the worm, the grub, tending the nest, avoiding the cat.

But he is not free.

He is bound to this labor. He comes forth from his shell, struggles into flight, searches for food, perpetuates his species without even knowing what he is, searches for more food, and one day dies. But the whole sky is full of birds. Flocks of birds in full flight. They give no thought to their freedom, or their burdens.

It is we who find the image of freedom in their flight.

It is we who are melancholy at the recognition of their passing lives.

The animals, in their unreflected innocence, remind us that the whole world is passing away. And perhaps too, there is an echo in animal life of the sadness at the heart of creation, a sadness that reflects something irretrievably lost.

Yet we do not get caught up in the mourning of this loss. Our gaze upon the natural world and our poetry are full of hope. We yearn for the freedom of the birds. We watch them in flight and we sense the promise of freedom. For the eager longing of creation awaits the revelation of the children of God. There is another mystery at work at the heart of creation, and it whispers in our hearts a restlessness, an expectation, a promise.

The birds will return to the earth and be joined to it. And one day, the earth will be transformed. The mystery of this is hidden from us.

But we will fly. We will be free.

The New Atheism And The Gulag

I was glad to hear about a new book, The Godless Delusion, by Patrick Madrid and Kenneth Hensley (OSV Press). In this book the authors confront the “new atheists”–contemporary scientists and others–who have made a splash in current popular culture with their books, articles, blogs, and websites. Rather than simply defending Christian or theistic arguments against their attacks, however, Madrid and Hensley take the offensive, venturing into the territory of the atheists themselves and arguing that atheism is rationally and humanly incoherent. I look forward to reading this book. Already, its theme and some of its content have inspired a few random reflections of my own, which I shall set forth below.

One of the book’s arguments is that by denying God and any transcendent reality, atheists lose the rational basis for making binding moral assertions. The “new atheists” argue that religion is “wrong,” that affirming God is “bad” for human beings and society, that it would be “good” to give up religion and concentrate on this world. But if they refuse to go beyond the material world, then what basis do they have for asserting the need for “right” and “wrong,” for “good” and “bad”? And why should anyone care? The atheists are cheating; they are sneaking in transcendent concepts of good and evil without admitting it. This is very important point.

But I have another question: Haven’t we already tried this idea of giving up religion and transcendence and concentrating solely on this material world? Indeed, haven’t we already pushed this experiment to the limit?

Without God, the foundations of the moral order cannot be upheld. This is something fundamental that the “new atheists” have to confront. The old atheists knew the moral abyss that was a consequence of the denial of God. Ivan Karamazov knew it 150 years ago: "If there is no God, then everything is permitted." Lenin knew it too; hence his ethic of expediency in the advancement of “scientific materialism,” which was the foundation for Stalin and Mao and the whole bloody 20th century.

Some think that if they deny God, they can escape from the transcendent consequences of moral actions, and avoid dealing with the reality of punishment for sin. But if atheists are trying to avoid the authority of God and the reality of sin, then I have a literary work I would like to recommend to them.

I think they should grapple with what could in a certain respect be called the modern version of Dante's "Inferno," namely, Aleksander Solzhenitsyn's epoch-defining masterpiece, The Gulag Archipelago. Here is a world without God: human persons are degraded and reduced to animals–on a huge scale–because Stalin needs to carry out the massive industrialization of the Soviet Union, and therefore requires a steady supply of cheap, expendable labor. Who is to tell him he is wrong? He has the power and he determines what is necessary. To whom can the atheist appeal against him? The atheist has no rational grounds to invoke any law beyond the criteria that serve the aims of those in power. If all that exists is the material world that we see, hear, touch, and measure, then there is no basis for affirming the dignity of the human person in the face of power. In the material world, power is supreme: the strongest forces prevail, and the only morality is survival of the fittest. It’s not surprising that the communists condemned themselves in Stalin’s show trials. They knew and submitted to the logic of the moral abyss.

The “new atheists” and those tempted by them should confront seriously the witness of Solzhenitsyn and others like him, all of which has been vindicated by the cold hard facts–now publically available to everyone–of the atheist totalitarian state and its massive slave labor program. By reading about the horrors of the labor camps, people may discover that their guts know there is a God even if their minds deny it.

Solzhenitsyn’s titanic literary achievement, The Gulag Archepelago, has not lost its relevance for the 21st century. I shall speak more about the relevance of Solzhenitsyn in another blog entry. But for now I want to emphasize this aspect of his testimony: the brutalization of the human, presented in such relentless and concrete detail, can shock a person out of the sleep of moral relativism, and awaken him or her once again to the “mystery of iniquity” and the transcendent need of the human heart for “justice”–and also, for mercy. The atheist has no explanation for these needs, or for the conscience of the human person that always speaks of the transcendence of the origin and fulfillment of reality.

Confirmation, Western Style

Yesterday, my son John Paul received the Sacrament of Confirmation according to the Roman rite of the Catholic Church.

Confirmation has developed in a distinctive way in the Roman rite (which is the rite of the vast majority of Catholics in the world). In the Byzantine rite and many of the other rites of the Eastern churches, the Sacrament of "Chrismation" is given to everyone immediately after Baptism, whether they are infants or adults, and is usually administered by the priest with oil blessed by the bishop. Because Chrismation/Confirm- ation is linked to Baptism as its crowning and fullness, the practice of the Eastern churches emphasizes this link. The newly initiated Christian, baptized and anointed in the Holy Spirit, then receives the Eucharist--not only adults, but also infants. The practice of the Eastern churches reflects the unity of "Christian initiation" by always keeping together the celebration of Baptism, Chrismation, and the Eucharist.

The Roman rite, however, places emphasis on another important aspect of this special anointing, and the results of the development of Roman practice highlight other aspects of the mystery and significance of the sacrament. This particular emphasis is on the relationship between Confirmation and the ministry of the bishop. In churches in the West, the bishop specifically and personally confers Confirmation. Historically, in the case of infant Baptism, this meant that Confirmation had to be delayed until the bishop came to visit the parish church in his diocese. In ancient times, travel was difficult, and these visits were not frequent.

Thus, for Catholics of the Roman rite, it was ordinary for Baptism and Confirmation to be separated by a period of time, and the baptized infant was a young person by the time the bishop administered Confirmation. Some time after Confirmation, the person would receive the Eucharist for the first time. Thus it was for many centuries. At the beginning of the last century, however, Pope St. Pius X stressed the importance of early reception of the Eucharist, and the age for first communion was lowered significantly. The result was that it became normal for a person to be baptized as an infant, to receive the Eucharist at the age of 7, and then to be confirmed later, around the age of 13 or 14.

Today it has become common in the Roman rite for adults to receive the three sacraments all together. The pastor of a parish baptizes, administers Confirmation as representative of the bishop and then gives first Eucharist to the new adult Christian, often at the liturgy of Holy Saturday. But for "cradle Catholics" the practice remains as it has been for the last hundred years.

For Catholics of the Roman rite, this has resulted in greater reflection on Confirmation as a sacrament that initiates the "adulthood" of the Christian life. It provides the special strength that enables a Christian to live and witness to his or her faith in the world. And the administration of Confirmation by the bishop emphasizes that the Christian has a direct vocation in the Church, concretely reflected in its being given at the hands of one of the successors of the Apostles. Indeed there is something appropriate to receiving Confirmation at the very beginning of one's "mature life." It is a reminder that the grace of the Holy Spirit is the foundation of a person's life, at precisely that time in which the person begins to become aware of the possibilities and responsibility of that life. It is a good way to embark upon the journey of adolescence and to receive the strength to develop as mature Christian and human adults.

So was I thinking about all this as my son was being confirmed? Yes. My mind is never far from theology and history. I have sometimes felt that I "like" the practice of the Eastern churches better. It is a glorious thing to attend the Christian initiation of an infant in a Byzantine church, and I have many friends who are members of Byzantine Catholic churches, i.e. churches of the Byzantine rite that are in full communion with the Pope. I love the unity of the celebration of Baptism-Chrismation/Confirmation-Eucharist.

And yet, I reflected on other things as I watched my son receive the Sacrament of Confirmation at this specific time in his life, at a distinct "moment," and at the hands of a bishop who can trace his episcopal consecration back through the centuries to the original twelve special followers of Jesus. I thought it good that he should be strengthened in grace at this time, when I can see almost daily my boy beginning to be a young man. I thought it good that this time of growth for him should be marked by a distinctive experience of being called by the Church, sealed with the gift of the Holy Spirit, and reminded of his own unique responsibility for living and witnessing to his faith.

God's Day

As soon as we awaken each morning, let us offer our first thoughts to God.


The truth is that the first person I encounter every morning when I open my eyes is God. Everything around me is God’s creation, through which he greets me.  I breathe in his air and open my eyes to his light.  The day, with all its hopes and its trials, rushes into my mind; hopes and trials out of which he will build the road that will lead me on my journey for this day.  The amazing thing is that even on the worst of days I can still remember that this is true.

Offering our life to God first thing in the morning is a way of acknowledging with gratitude that that our being, our life, and everything we have belongs to him.  I am who I am because I am His creature.  Everything that is “Me” is the effect, here and now, of his direct and personal creative and sustaining love.  This is what matters, even without professional honors, or a job, or even the ability to do much of anything.  His love is everything.  Outside of that love there is “nothing.”

I give thanks to the Lord that He has grounded my life in His Truth.  Suffering can drive me to forget, or lose focus.  But reality remains what it is, and Jesus holds onto me inside that reality and enables me to remember it.  He does this through the mystery of His Church, His people who for two thousand years have risen each morning and offered their prayers to God.  And so, when I wake up, in whatever condition, with whatever misery or whatever happy expectation, the truth is that I am not alone.  I am invited to pray in union with the whole people of God, with the angels and saints, with every creature that exists to sing His praise.

  --from my book Never Give Up: My Life and God's Mercy (order: http://t.co/ddwYeqX )