CowPi Journal

Have you noticed the prevalence of skulls on clothing lately? Don’t people realize that skulls and bones have been symbols of death in every culture and in every time period throughout history? Come on people, skulls equal death. Is death what you really want to celebrate?

I heard this excerpt quoted from Fr. Richard John Neuhaus (who passed away earlier this month) on the radio. It is from his closing address to the annual convention of the National Right to Life Committee held last July. (Read the whole talk).

The culture of death is an idea before it is a deed. I expect many of us…can remember when we were first encountered by the idea. For me, it was in the 1960s when I was pastor of a very poor, very black, inner city parish in Brooklyn, New York. I had read that week an article by Ashley Montagu of Princeton University on what he called “A Life Worth Living.” He listed the qualifications for a life worth living: good health, a stable family, economic security, educational opportunity, the prospect of a satisfying career to realize the fullness of one’s potential. These were among the measures of what was called “a life worth living.”

And I remember vividly, as though it were yesterday, looking out the next Sunday morning at the congregation of St. John the Evangelist and seeing all those older faces creased by hardship endured and injustice afflicted, and yet radiating hope undimmed and love unconquered. And I saw that day the younger faces of children deprived of most, if not all, of those qualifications on Prof. Montagu’s list. And it struck me then, like a bolt of lightning, a bolt of lightning that illuminated our moral and cultural moment, that Prof. Montagu and those of like mind believed that the people of St. John the Evangelist—people whom I knew and had come to love as people of faith and kindness and endurance and, by the grace of God, hope unvanquished—it struck me then that, by the criteria of the privileged and enlightened, none of these my people had a life worth living. In that moment, I knew that a great evil was afoot. The culture of death is an idea before it is a deed.

The following poem/prayer is by Fr. J. Michael Sparough, S.J. It originally appeared in the journal Presence, Vol. 1, Number 1, January, 1995. My spiritual director read it to me about two months ago from the book, A Retreat with Our Lady, Dominic and Ignatius.

This poem/prayer hits the very center of everything for me. Every line applies except the one on sermons, but since I’ve given quite a few talks at retreats, I suppose it is similar enough. (I have done some light editing with the first line, line breaks, indentations, and stanzas.)

Father,
I admit the truth hidden in my heart.

I’ve read books on trust.
I’ve heard tapes on trust.
I’ve written journals on trust.
I’ve preached sermons on trust.
But let’s begin by my admitting:
     I don’t trust You, God.

I’d like to trust You.
I’ve prayed to trust You.
I’ve told others to trust You.
I’ve told others I trust You.
But the truth is closer to fear.

I’m afraid. I’m afraid of You.
Yes, You:
     all-judging, all-seeing, all-knowing You.
Yes, me:
     semi-controlled, semi-consistent, semi-confused me.
I’m afraid of what will happen,
     if I ever really entrust my life
     into Your all-powerful, almighty,
     all (hopefully) merciful hands.

I’ve heard stories about Your sainted friends,
     waiting dark nights in the cell of their souls,
     losing their heads at the most inopportune times,
     fed to the lions for lunch,
     or dressed up for dinner, roasted medium rare.

You see I’ve talked to Your Son, and He assures me
     no servant is greater than the one who sends.
So, yes, I trust You’ll lead me to a lonely hill
     where three nails and
     two wooden cross beams are waiting.
This won’t come as a welcomed surprise.

And to tell you the truth, I can’t trust You’ll return
     three days later to keep your promise
     to roll that stone away.
I’ve been abandoned and betrayed already, thank You.
The most trust I can muster is to entrust You my heart—
     five minutes at a time.

Come, take me as Your own.
I give You all I am, and all I ever hope to be.
I am Your servant, Your friend, Your child.
Transform me, possess me, liberate me, fill me.
Do with me what You will—
     for the next five minutes.

Then, please, come back again.
Knocking at the door of my heart,
Reextend the invitation.

— J. Michael Sparough, S.J.

Well I look in the mirror
What the hell happened to me?
Whatever I had has gone away
I’m not that young kid that I used to be
So I push the hair back out of my face
That’s okay, I knew this would happen
But I was hopin’ not today
Hey baby, I’m not running anymore
But I’m on my way

— John Mellencamp, from “I’m Not Running Anymore”

Once more around the sun…

Birthdays, their significance are much different now than as a kid. Back then, each one was connected with specific events, usually by grade level. Third grade year felt differently than fourth grade, and so on. Vignettes of memories float by of my mom and dad and brother, a good friend one year, blowing out the candles on the cake in the old kitchen, the endless gray overcast winter days of Cincinnati, days off from school running together during Christmas vacation. Don’t seem to recall many of the presents, which seemed to be mostly clothes. Having a birthday so close to Christmas usually didn’t lend itself to getting any more toys.

The big birthdays were much anticipated, like 16 and getting my drivers license, 18 because then it was “official” I was an adult (being able to vote was cool too), and then of course, the big 21, which ironically, was a pleasant, low-keyed evening with a couple of college buddies. Back then, the drinking age was 18 and so that wasn’t a big deal. As an uncle said to me, “So you’re 21. Now you can get drunk and thrown in jail in every state in the union.” A reminder of responsibility or a hint to vague memories of stories of my uncle bailing out his brothers when they were young men in trouble with the law?

The other birthdays seem to be wisps of memories just under the surface of recall. The nice round numbers like 25, 30, 35, sound like they should be memorable but are not. There was much anxiety about my 40th birthday, but the actual day too came and went without much fanfare.

And now that I am on the uphill side of 50, I wonder. My beard is nearly all gray now. (So much for my college nickname, Red Beard.) Not much hair to push back out of my face as before. Having been blessed with good eye sight, it looks like I finally need to see the eye doctor for some glasses. I knew this would happen, but I was hoping not this year.

Isn’t that how it seems to go? We hope and look forward to some things. And for others, we know that they will happen—it’s inevitable—but we want to postpone them. Why do we resist some moments? In the end, doesn’t this seem to be the real reason underlying our rationalizations for much of our behavior, that is, avoiding something? We even avoid the hint of asking the question, let alone the answers, to what are we avoiding and why?

If I make it to fifty, I think I’m going to try to make that birthday more memorable. Maybe a big party, or something like skydiving or some other bucket list item. Hell, why wait till then. What about today?

Wait. Hold on there a moment. I have been waxing nostalgia here. Memories come and go. They are more ephemeral than experiences. Memories are good but they are not now, not reality. Chasing down experiences is not exactly what I want. I’m not running anymore, but I want to be on my way. (Or should I say Your way.) Remembering what I did is not the goal, living is; living each moment for what it is worth, to its fullest. All is gift.

Memorable or not, some of those birthdays were lived well—I engaged the day. Some were not—I coasted through them, just getting by. The same can be said of every day.

Lord, help me to live the words from another Mellencamp song,

Your life is now
In this undiscovered moment

As Captain Picard on Star Trek: The Next Generation used to say to the helmsman, “Engage.” Which goes with what Paula D’Arcy says, “God comes to us disguised as our life.”