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.

Originally published by Ministry & Liturgy Magazine, September 2011
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I learn the deep meaning of Advent from people who hear voices all during the year. For many people who experience lifelong mental illness, sorting out the voice of hope and love during the holidays becomes very challenging. Last Advent, I spent some intentional time with several people who regularly teach me the complexities of living in our culture and struggling to hear the voice of God.

The paradoxes between Thanksgiving Day and New Year’s Day are legion. Last year on the day after Thanksgiving, the local news stations were reporting that the advertisements in the Oregonian newspaper weighed four and a half pounds. We were all expected to begin the season listening to the voice of consumerism, carrying the heavy load of a newspaper and the burden of purchasing gifts for loved ones. People living in poverty show me the problem of such expectations. Most people cannot afford such gifts. More importantly, most people suffering mental illness do not have loved ones to buy a gift for in the first place. Many families disown their members with chronic mental illness. Other families may be more supportive, but mental illness itself may cause a son or daughter, parent or spouse to break off contact completely. People living on the streets or in low-income housing have little family support and few friends.

I listen to the voice of the Advent gospels with a new ear. I hear the adult voice of Jesus telling us to be watchful and alert. These words get wrapped around much apprehension for many people who hear voices telling them that they are not worthy of Jesus. So many people become agitated and anxious because they feel they do not live up to Jesus’ standard already. Hearing the voice of Jesus in Advent becomes difficult when people already live with a deep sense of unworthiness and depression. The voice of the beloved Savior eludes so many people.

John the Baptist cries out from the desert to prepare us for Christ’s second coming. His clear and sharp voice may also be interpreted in many other ways. For many people who suffer from post-trauma related conditions, John’s voice may bring much fear to their lives. They clench their muscles and cringe when a sudden voice calls out in the night or when there is a knock on the door. I learn to turn down the volume of John’s insistency to straighten up our lives. John wears minimal clothing and eats little food as do so many people who already live outside and survive the cold nights.

Advent articulates the many competing voices of despair and hope, darkness and light, loneliness and communion. These are the mix of emotions so many families face in preparing for the holidays and the coming of Christ. These are the voices our parish communities must help people discern and sort through. We need so desperately to find the voice of God in our lives and parishes. So many people long to sort through the competing and complicated voices that shout that purchasing material things will make us all happy. We need to help people find life amid the overwhelming expectations that every person is happy, joyful and fulfilled in every way. We must sort out for our children their ingrained sense of entitlement that they deserve every toy, gadget and European trip during the holiday season. This is the real work of our worshipping communities during the time between Thanksgiving and the end of the Christmas season.

A twenty-something college graduate stood in line to be anointed after Mass during Advent. I had spoken to him only one time before. He told me that his mental illness was getting worse. He stood in front of me sobbing, leaning his head on my shoulder. I tried with all my faith to find the words of an angel that greeted Mary “Do not be afraid.” So many people are unable to receive the consoling voices of scripture when the many voices inside them are so convincing. The message of fearlessness must be interpreted in every parish community in so many different ways during the Advent season. We all need the many angels of consolation and hope.

Last year at the conclusion of the Advent season, I noticed a sign posted in our parish office window. “On Wednesday, December 23 we will be distributing sleeping bags and backpacks.” I stood before the sign and started to cry. The sign was a reminder of how people were going to spend Christmas, alone in the cold. However, I was also grateful for the small step to provide something warm for people. Advent and life come wrapped in many unfortunate realities amid God’s voice of love.

Originally published by Ministry & Liturgy Magazine, August 2011
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November in particular exposes memories of the dead. The liturgy celebrates what so many people experience out of doors as seasons change, that life itself gives way to death. The celebration of All Saints and All Souls opens a flood of recollections of the dead. As days get shorter our memories become more intense. The holidays become tender experiences for so many people unable to face the death of loved ones. Love is an incredible bond but so are guilt, regret and shame.

I realized this tension among people who straddle love and regret in the passing of a loved-one some years ago. Members of a family entered my office to prepare a memorial service for a relative. I noticed immediately hardened tension among the living. Each person told me that he or she was closer to the unmarried deceased man than the other relatives. The niece of the gentleman claimed to know him the best. The son raged against her claiming his spot among his father’s affection. The unnamed issues continued to do battle in the confines of my office space.

As the day for the funeral arrived, I felt the tension at peak level. However, what caught my attention before the funeral were the arrangements of funeral flowers that had been delivered to the church. A large colored ribbon flowed out of each traditional display of autumn chrysanthemums and long gladiolas. A word appeared on each ribbon describing the relationship between the person who purchased the flowers and the deceased, -“father”, “uncle” and “cousin”. Each name on the ribbon was written in glue and colored in glitter. The arguments over who was the most important heir continued over which floral design was most expensive and which ribbon carried the largest glittered name.

As I reflect on the gospels for the closing weeks of the liturgical year, I examine the priorities Jesus wants to instill within our discipleship. Jesus insists that the light of the Kingdom will shine brighter among the peacemakers, the poor in spirit and people who mourn humbly in the face of death. My experience teaches me that we need to give people the tools to mourn their losses and grieve prayerfully throughout life. The battles that were exposed during this family’s funeral tell me that we all struggle with our finite existence on earth. So many people are reluctant to believe they have a place in heaven and that relationships on earth can ever be healed, loved and forgiven.

Jesus reminds us that we need to be wise in our preparations for the Bridegroom. My ministry teaches me that we have lost sight of our basic belief that death gives way to life. Many families no longer celebrate funerals. Instead, “Celebration of life” parties have taken the place of the funeral liturgy. A local funeral home has been in business for 160 years. The owner recently remodeled the former chapel to act as a party room instead. Video screens, a grand piano and banquet tables have replaced the pulpit, pipe organ and pews. So many people coming to the funeral do not want any physical evidence of religion, ceremony or ritual. Party planners are replacing funeral directors. The wisdom of God’s invitation is replaced with our human control over how death will be celebrated on earth.

Jesus also tells us that in the end only a few things will be required of us. The kingdom will be offered to those who simply feed the hungry, care for the sick, visit the prisoner and clothe the naked. As believers we will find our true light when we offer service to one another. The person on earth with least influence is our key to heaven. This is the hidden grace of our faith. The Kingdom is open for us who are willing to sit with the dying who make us uncomfortable. The Promised Land is prepared for us who see Christ amid hardship, loneliness, imprisonment and hunger. Christ’s words are clear and challenging, yet our fear of death and our guilt over how we live remain so unyielding. We do not serve people in order to inherit their earthly goods after they die. We serve people in order to discover our true home in heaven and real love now on this earth.

I remember cleaning up glitter for weeks after that funeral. Celebrating each Mass during that time period I saw a speckle or two of glitter somewhere in the sanctuary. I claimed again the family in prayer at the sight of each sparkle. During the month of November, every parish community is invited into people’s memories of the dead. We all minister among arguments and hurt feelings around death so that we may encourage families that our differences will be sorted out in love.

Originally published by Ministry & Liturgy Magazine, June 2011
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Last autumn I attended the annual priest convocation for the Archdiocese of Portland, Oregon. Most of the agenda was focused on the new translation of the Roman Missal. We gathered in a familiar setting near the ocean and the structure of the week was similar to previous years. I overheard many priests express their anxiety about the new translation and how it would be received in their parishes. I heard many others speaking of the week simply as a time to relax and talk with one another. The view of the ocean through the window that led to the meeting room seemed a compelling enough reason to me to be present at the convocation.

We did receive an education about the translation of the Roman Missal. We listened to words of many of the presider’s prayers and people’s responses. We discussed our responsibility for implementing the changes. We discussed the need for more education about the liturgy in every worshipping community. However, these are not the issues that I found powerful and provocative about the meeting.

We adjourned for a fifteen-minute break after the last session on the new translation of the liturgy. The meeting then turned quickly to another topic. We reconvened to learn more about the dire topic of human trafficking. The sex trade in Portland is so bad that city officials asked the Archbishop if they could address all the priests of the Archdiocese. Portland is the place for pimps. The sex trade has found its home along the Interstate 5 freeway because Portland is readily accessible to Canada to the north and Mexico to the south. We learned how easily young high school girls are solicited in our local suburban malls by conniving johns. Pimps lure teenage girls into prostitution who seem timid or shy, who wander the mall looking lost, forgotten and in need of attention. These men may find such girls after school walking alone in a mall or a city sidewalk. Most often the young girls do not get along with their parents. They are easy targets for a john who promises freedom from parental authority, offers many material possessions and entices her with a chance to travel.

It took me more than a few minutes to make the mental transition from the Roman Missal to local prostitution. I could not comprehend the vulnerability of these young women and the brutality of their johns. In stunned silence we viewed a PowerPoint presentation on prostitution. The attention of every person in the room was directed on the horrifying statistics of poverty, neglect, abuse and prostitution. I realized during that meeting with my fellow priests how many people are lost amidst our inability to translate our faith into the real issues of life.

As we reflect on the liturgical gospels for the Twenty-fifth Sunday of Ordinary Time until the Thirty-first Sunday in Ordinary Time, I understand once again the connection of translating the gospel message into the messiness of real life. People need a second chance from the landowner who wants to hire workers for the vineyard. Those of us who listen to the gospels every weekend in the comfort of our sanctuaries must be able to welcome people who come to faith even in the eleventh hour. The addict from the suburbs speaks to me on the phone because he wants yet another chance to keep his children after experiencing a weekend blackout. God’s invitation supersedes our rigid rules and certain limits about who is worthy to receive a daily wage. The last will be first and the first will be last.

I hear the gospel of the son hesitating to work in the vineyard when I experience my own uncertainty accepting the smelly veteran or the woman who has stolen from us. I cannot put limits on people’s response to God and to the invitation to believe in miracles. Our worshipping communities must not write off people we label as lost, mentally ill, dirty, abused or people who just feel they do not belong. Everyone belongs within the mercy of God even when we wait until the eleventh hour to believe in God’s invitation.

Jesus tells us that tax collectors and prostitutes are entering the Kingdom of God ahead of other people. I see this with my own eyes in our parish community. The lives of the marginalized and destitute form our humble worship every day. This is the real, honest and genuine translation of the liturgy that our faith must be lived in real life. I realize my hesitancy to accept the girl who continues to cut her self and the one-tooth man with halitosis. Even when I am most tired, I hold on the holy words of Jesus to believe that God still loves our broken world.

The real translation of the Mass in every generation invites every person to the feast. From the byroads of Interstate 5 to the back roads of city alleys, the feast is always ready for everyone to attend. We gather with friends and strangers alike, filling our sanctuaries. The liturgy sends us out into the world to translate bread and wine into the living Body of Christ.

Originally published by Ministry & Liturgy Magazine, May 2011
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I so admire the Canaanite woman. I always look forward to hearing her strong voice calling out to Jesus and the disciples (Matthew 15:21-28). She was crippled in fear because of her daughter’s illness. She desired the healing touch of Jesus even though she was not a lost sheep of the house of Israel. The strong-voiced mother clamored at Jesus’ side to change his mind about who could receive his love.

We enter into this courageous story again on the Twentieth Sunday of Ordinary Time (August 14). This nameless woman’s voice bellows out to us from long ago and it is still not silent. From her suffering comes a profound model of persistence and hope. Her love for her daughter was not going to be neglected, put aside or buried in society’s rules. Her voice rings out to Jesus’ ear and across the generations to our day and time.

This persistence and patience rises from deep faith. Her determination was fueled by the fact that she was out of the bounds of Jesus’ love because of her heritage and background. I am so intrigued that someone from the margins of Christ’s care teaches the rest of us how to pray tirelessly and how to bring our deepest suffering to the person of Christ. This woman, like so many women, teaches us how to believe and how to come to God with profound honesty.

I am reminded now of my dear friend, the Canaanite woman, because a year ago we welcomed a new pastor to the Downtown Chapel. His installation as pastor took place during our Saturday Vigil Mass. Parishioners presented him with the Gospel Book, the Sacramentary, a green stole, the Oil of the Sick and the collection basket. At the exact same time, a group of prostitutes were meeting in the basement directly below the chapel. I kept hearing people enter the building from the side entrance. I wondered if our new pastor really understood where those liturgical symbols were going to lead him if he accepted them with his whole heart. The voices of women caught in human trafficking were right under our feet. All during the liturgy, my mind kept going downstairs, deep into the darkness of the building where the women in need were stirring. Our parish hosts this group every Saturday evening. On that evening I really heard the voices calling out for new life, change and healing.

The Canaanite woman’s persistence celebrates for me the many voices of women who beg us for acceptance, healing and belonging. I see this persistence in our chapel, our basement and in every part of our parish community. A group of retired women nurses wash feet, cut curly-long toenails and offer advice for caring for diabetes every Wednesday morning, also in the basement. These women act out the Scriptures, speak up about people’s needs and offer prayer for people in profound need. This hidden, often silent action of our community helps us all transform our indifference into genuine prayer and concern.

I pray I never become deaf to the cry of the Canaanite woman. As I hear the prayers from a homeless mother whose child needs diapers, medical care and shelter, I know I cannot rest. I must continue to work to bridge the lives of suffering people into the mission of the Church. I hear the cries of tireless immigrant mothers having to leave their children back in the home country. I cannot turn a deaf ear to a middle-aged child who has to leave behind her aging mother in a nursing home in another state because she has to care for her fatherless children. I must open my ears, heart and prayer to the woman who struggles for food, rent assistance and education for her children. The strong voices calling out for new life are all around us, even in the basement.

Our ministry among God’s people surviving poverty encounters much resistance. We struggle with health care, other people’s prejudice, indifference and apathy. However, I take great consolation from a woman who had no power, authority and voice in the culture of Jesus’ time. In the midst of her powerlessness, she changed Jesus’ mind. She told him that even dogs receive table scraps. Her faith saved her and healed her daughter.

I cling to the fact that there are enough scraps from our common altars to feed the needs of all people. There is enough love from us, the Body of Christ, to hear the voices of people calling out in need well beyond our common sanctuary steps. From the basement to hospital beds, from migrant worker camps to the suburban poor, we must all have the courage to help change the mind of Christ by our faithful and humble prayer.