Originally published by Ministry & Liturgy Magazine, December 2011
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I began praying the Triduum noticing the floor. This was the first Triduum without the old burgundy carpet in the chapel. The simple concrete floor with noticeable old screw holes, chips, scratches and flaws invokes a rugged, urban environment. The poured concrete aisles also convenience our friends in wheelchairs and others who come in with soaking-wet boots and soggy backpacks. I noticed that everyone moved around the chapel with ease and purpose without the threadbare carpeting. I realized that I never really noticed the floor as we began the sacred dance of death and resurrection.

Rosie wheeled herself in through the doors and into her usual spot near the sanctuary as we prepared for the evening Mass of the Lord’s Supper. Living with cerebral palsy, Rosie is a bold presence in our neighborhood. Her lifelong disease stiffens her body and makes her speech very difficult to understand. She protested in City Hall and held banners in parades rousing attention for civil rights for people suffering disabilities. As we began the Holy Thursday liturgy, I saw her ease her motorized chair into her usual spot with a flick of her finger. I cannot take her suffering away but at least she no longer has to battle the carpeting.

We washed feet on the concrete aisles. Watered splashed, dripped and danced everywhere. Dirty socks and assorted sneakers spotted the grey aisles. I poured out the water along with my prayer for all of us who walk the treacherous ground of street life and the uneven ground of church life.

We processed with the consecrated Eucharist to a small altar near the emergency exit. Mary’s image is there. We invited everyone to follow in the procession. I approached the small altar after weaving our way on the concrete path. I noticed Rosie had been first in line to follow the sacred bread and wine. We all sang with yearning from our broken hearts.  I stood at the small table watching the faces of people who desperately need God. My gaze was interrupted, as I smelled an unpleasant odor. Rosie’s urine bag leaked during the sojourn. A stream of urine trickled along the aisles to the place of holy reservation. Jesus invites everyone to wait with him. I felt the deep love of his tears streaming on to the rocks in the garden.

I quietly processed alone on the concrete aisle as we began the liturgy on Good Friday. I prostrated myself before the sanctuary on the cold concrete. I felt the floor under my entire body for the first time. I breathed and relaxed there. I was there on behalf of everyone. I felt in my entire being the people who wheel themselves around the chapel and people who are too tired to stand up and the people who are too depressed to understand their own lives. The cold floor makes us one in offering everything to God.

I heard a woman weeping. I noticed her as I stood up and continued the liturgy. She is not Catholic and lives in daily recovery. When the liturgy was over she came to speak with me on the sidewalk. She was still crying as she began telling me of what happened just before the liturgy began. As she approached the chapel before noon, she noticed a man sleeping on the sidewalk near the chapel covered with a large, bright red blanket. All of his possessions were piled up next to him. She told me as she noticed me prostrate on the concrete floor with my body covered in red vesture her heart realized the profound connection of Christ’s suffering for us. She could not stop crying as she continued to connect the sleeping man on the street and her priest on the chapel floor.

After flipping on the light switches on Easter morning, I walked into the chapel and noticed white candle wax dotting the grey floor. Some leaflets had fallen to the ground in the rush of cleaning up after the Easter Vigil. Bags of canned goods and assorted used clothing piled up near the sanctuary were donated during the Easter duty. I remembered Jesus’ used clothing next the open grave.

We buried Rosie this past year. Her body could no longer be bound in such suffering. Many people suffering disabilities assembled for her funeral in another parish. Our floors could not take the size of the crowd. I told the story of her urine bag leaking on Holy Thursday. I reminisced of her determined prayer no matter what the obstacles.

We continue to pray without the old carpeting. Many stories will walk, stumble, hobble or be wheeled into our chapel in the year to come. In future Holy Weeks, I will pay more attention to our prayerful dance of Christ’s passion, death and resurrection on the chipped concrete.

Originally published by Ministry & Liturgy Magazine, November 2011
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My parents taught me not to point my finger at strangers. I was told it was rude to point to another person and whisper behind his or her back. As a child I dare not point to a person with a different skin color or another child who somehow did not fit into my scheme or pattern of life. It was simply rude to be seen in public pointing to other people. Most other children were also taught not to point at anyone in public.  However, on playgrounds everywhere, new kids, different kids, gentle kids, smart kids, big-eared kids, freckled kids and fat kids were all pointed at by just about everyone I knew.

I live now on a block where children and adults still point. Strangers point at other adults who line up on the sidewalk outside our doors.  They also point in the direction of a teen who is so stoned he cannot walk across the street. Other passersby do more than point– they spit, wag their fists and kick men who are sleeping on the sidewalk. I still believe it is impolite even to point.

As we listen to the Scriptures during the beginning of Ordinary Time, once again John the Baptist appears strong and sure. We relied on him to show us the way to Christ and the Kingdom of God all during the Advent season and even during the Christmas holiday. John continues to do one thing—he points toward Jesus. John has been portrayed in art throughout the centuries as pointing to Jesus. He has been caught in paintings and in sculpture doing the very thing so many parents and teachers have taught us not to do, that is point to another person in public.

John’s pointing is different. He points to his cousin because he is sure Jesus is the one who will bring unity and peace to the world.  John points to Jesus during his baptism because Jesus is the revelation of the Father’s love. John assures us that the Spirit will continue to point us all into the direction of the Kingdom. John also points to Jesus with more than his index finger. John’s heart, mind and soul are also oriented into the direction of Christ Jesus. His very soul knows that the only way through earthly life will be in the direction of the Kingdom of Heaven.

John’s voice is also pointing to Christ. As Jesus walks by, John proclaims with his entire being, “Behold, the Lamb of God.” This is one of the most sacred statements and recognitions in the Scriptures. This is an act of sheer love and deep awareness of the living Christ. This statement is a profoundly contemplative act on John’s behalf. This statement is the result of John’s years of pointing into the direction of the holy. This is an awakening moment, a joy filled expression, which comes from a loving and profound understanding of Christ on the earth.

As we continue in this Ordinary Time, we all need to reflect on how our lives point toward Christ. We need to take some retreat time for our parish staffs to view where we are heading.  We need to evaluate our liturgies, education and service if they are rooted in our deep awareness of the Lamb of God. Do we recognize the Lamb of God from our hearts and in our worshipping assemblies? Do we have the conviction and the awareness to know Christ in such a passionate way? Perhaps our finger pointing is to our own selfishness or to point out the differences of other parishes in order to make ourselves look good. We point to the fact that we have more money and parishioners. We point to our music ministry because our liturgical style is certainly better than the parish next door. We point out that we are glad we have no one sleeping at our church doors and that no homeless people are sitting in our pews. Fingers, hearts and lives may be pointed in many other directions than the Lamb of God.

These days of Ordinary Time also show us that Christ is pointing directly to us. Jesus rebukes our unclean spirits. He reaches out with his entire hand to heal Simon’s mother-in-law. He heals many who are sick with various diseases and drives out demons. Jesus also stretches out his hand to touch the people we have pointed to as dirty such as the lepers. Even the leper pointed to him and asked to be made clean.

Our finger pointing must imitate John the Baptist so we may know who Jesus is among us. We also need to continue to stretch out our hands in the name of Christ Jesus and heal the lepers, the outcasts, the marginalized and ever person whom we judge as different from ourselves. I long to point my finger in love, “Behold, the Lamb of God.”

Originally published by Ministry & Liturgy Magazine, October 2011
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I unlocked the red steel doors of our parish building last Christmas morning, noticing a special holiday silence on the streets. The business executives were safely tucked in the suburbs and the night clubbers were sleeping off a Christmas Eve drunk. Only the drug dealers were roaming the city streets in the early hours on Christmas morning. More people purchase illegal drugs during the holidays because people have to spend more time with their families, I guess. I did notice one thing as I unlocked the panic bar of one of the heavy doors. A man was sleeping next to the door near the corner of the building. He was covered with blankets to protect him from the Christmas rain. However, his face was uncovered. I did not recognize him and there was no reason to wake him up and have him move from that spot. So I went back into the chapel to prepare for our simple Christmas Mass.

As the Eucharist ended, I processed outside to greet the humble assembly on the sidewalk. I noticed that my sleeping friend was awake with his belongings piled up and covered with plastic near the wall. He was bearded and exceptionally tall. He noticed me and I felt his energy standing behind some parishioners I was greeting. He approached me bashfully; his head swaggering from sided to side. He said to me, “ I hope you don’t mind, but I stood in the lobby and listened for about five minutes.” I immediately assured him this is the very reason why we are here on this corner. I then stopped listening. I started telling him that we were closed and would not open for clothing and supplies until after the New Year. He put up his hand to stop me. “No”, he inserted, “I am not here for clothing, I am here for what you have inside now. What do you call the service today?”

I was completely taken aback. I felt red embarrassment dance on my face. I was so quick to judge, so sure I was correct. Then I realized I had to explain what we have inside. I fumbled to explain the Eucharist, the God-made-flesh, the Christmas miracle among the marginalized of the city.

As I reflect on the Christmas scriptures again, his piercing question still unsettles me. I take what we have inside for granted. I now have a new sensitivity for people seeking God and who long for the simplest of praying communities. I was also tied up with my own Christmas loneliness, the holiday haze that still covers my heart and perspective on Christmas morning. His statement snapped me out of my holiday selfishness.

Christmas morning is time for John the Baptist’s testimony to the Light. Every parish community must give testimony to God even though we are exhausted trying to meet everyone’s spiritual expectations. Every worshiping assembly should stop mid-Christmas Eve and find the silence to understand what we are doing in our churches and try to articulate what we have. We have the Word becoming flesh even among the scraggly-bearded and the foul breathed. We have treasures of college students back home only going to church so to keep peace in the family. We need to feed people not only with the Bread of Heaven but also with words of welcome and actions of true acceptance. We need to sort out our disappointments and get over our hurts before we preside at the Eucharist or lead the tired, elderly choir. We have so much of what really matters.

Every worshipping assembly in every corner of the earth proclaims God’s saving power. Every corner may include a man tucked under a bridge or sleeping in the church entryway. Every corner may include a veteran just home from war and full of anxiety to be in a crowded church on Christmas morning. Every corner should include the lonely heart of the priest and the grief of a new widower sitting in the last pew of the assembly. Every corner may include the angry preteen that only wants acceptance from her parents after telling them of her first sexual encounter. Every corner may include the new gay couple that started coming to Mass after a friend’s suicide. These are the corners of the world in need on Christmas morning. People want so much of what we have but we do not see the miracles.

When I open the doors this Christmas morning, I will remember my friend from last year. I am sure I will not see him. I will be reminded of him when I meet the next stranger and invite him to join us inside the chapel. I will invite him to stay beyond five minutes and experience the treasure of all we possess inside our small community of people who believe God-with-us.