Ten Years of Writing 

Sitting here at my desk, it occurs to me that this is my tenth year of writing these reflections. I started out teaching Catholic beliefs and practices in nearly every essay. Back then, the questions and comments I received in emails, on Facebook and on Twitter were asking for more clarification on what we Catholics believe and why we believe it. But since those early days, more and more people want to know about things like mercy and hope, and what happens to us after we die. I want to take that change as a good sign.  

We see so much evidence that folks no longer have guiding religious beliefs. Fewer attend church. More couple are divorcing, or never bothering to get married at all. Maybe people are beginning to think more deeply about what life is about, what God is about, and if today is all there is. When I sit down to write, I pray that God will use my words to reveal His glory and to share the love that He has given me and wants to share with my readers. This brings me to the question a lady asked me last week. “Why do you write?”

It wasn’t a new question for me. I think about it a lot. And I come up with a different answer almost every time. I think it’s important for every writer to know why they write. Also, for doctors, and pastors, and truck drivers, to know why they do what they do, too. We should value our limited time on earth enough to know how we’re spending it. Here are some of my answers. 

My favorite, and the first one to pop into my head when my friend asked me, is a quote by Flannery O’Connor, someone whose writing I love. She said, “I write to discover what I know.” Until I put my thoughts down on paper, I’m not really certain what I know or don’t know. Writing helps sort things out, especially complicated subjects like baptism and the Eucharist. I may think I’m clear on something, but writing helps me, and hopefully my readers, see things more clearly.  

I write because there are a lot of misunderstandings about being Catholic. We don’t worship Mary, or pray to statues, or believe we can work or buy our way into heaven. We do believe that Jesus left us a Church and that His Church gave us the Bible. I hope my writing can help my readers better understand what it means to be Catholic.  

I write because I love interacting with my readers. They make me a better writer. They make me a better person. I hear their stories of faith and doubt, of courage and fear and heartbreak. They share their prayer requests with me, which is a wonderful gift. Writing connects me to a community of believers and non-believers that I’d otherwise never know and I thank God for that.  

And lastly, I write with the hope that someone’s heart might to opened to the great love and mercy of God through these little seeds that I sow. I write because I love the Lord and am so humble and grateful for the opportunities that writing allows me to share that love. No sin is too great for the mercy and forgiveness of God. Please join me in saying a special prayer for that person in your life who feels far from God today. And pray for me, that my words might be used by the Lord for His great purpose. Thank you so much for your faithfulness.  

“All writing comes by the hand of God. “

          —Ralph Waldo Emerson 

Beauty

Several weeks ago, I visited Iceland for the first time. The landscape is rugged and rocky, but there are lots of trees too, which surprised me. Out of the city, you can drive for miles and only occasionally see a house, but you’ll see lots of sheep and ponies. It is exquisitely clean and the air smells fresh and stubbed with pine. We went on several evening excursions into the countryside with the hopes of seeing the aurora borealis, the “northern lights.” Truth is we could have stayed in town because this year was an exceptional one for viewing the lights even through the blur of city light pollution. The lights appear when charged particles from the solar winds interact with the earth’s atmosphere. That’s the science of it. But nothing prepared me for the awe of it.  

It would begin with a flicker of neon green near the horizon. Our little group stood watching, cameras ready. Then a huge curtain of yellow flowing light seemed to spill downwards to the horizon. The trees around a nearby lake were silhouetted with the background of glowing sky. It was breathtaking. Swirling colors of orange and yellow-green with a burst of red or even bright blue kept us turning and pointing to one another. It lasted for hours. Over the next few nights, as our guides took us to several viewing spots, our little group got to know one another. We were from Italy, Australia, Germany, and the United States. On Sunday, two of us went to Mass at the Cathedral in Reykjavik, while the rest shared brunch. That evening, out in the country, we were quietly watching the light show. It was our last night. One of our group was sharing some of the technical aspects of the aurora. He obviously knew quite a bit about it. For me, though the science of it was interesting, it was the sheer overwhelming beauty that transfixed me. This huge celestial light show was like a peek into heaven.  

That’s the thing about beauty—it calls to mind the Creator. There’s a wonderful C.S. Lewis quote about it: “The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing…to find the place where all the beauty comes from…” To me, that’s what happens when I experience beauty. It engenders in me a desire to know and to experience the source of that beauty. It’s like seeing a beautiful painting and wanting to meet the painter. Only I know that the creator of the aurora is also my Creator. I can’t imagine experiencing the splendor of these northern lights, or an ocean sunset, or a snow-covered woodland and not being in awe of the One Who created it. And with that awe comes reverence, the deepest respect and honor imaginable for our Lord, Who in His goodness made everything for us, out of love.  

We don’t hear much about “reverence” anymore. Maybe that’s because no one models reverence for us. When our worship is little more than a rock concert led by a motivational speaker in blue jeans, there’s little sense of awe. And we’ve become poorer for it, in my opinion. We’ve become dulled to the transcendent and we reduce miracles to biology or coincidence. We value noise over silence, and appearance over substance. Tomorrow, we’ll chase the next big thing. What we can’t see, what many refuse to see, is the beauty of a universe created for us, begging us to be still, to look around us, and to be embraced by our Creator. We spend our short time on earth gazing down at a screen when all of heaven is falling down in sheets of light around us. Lord, have mercy.  

“Beauty will save the world.”

                    —-Fyodor Dostoevsky 

On Connie Mack and The Catholic Church 

The first time I visited the Baseball Hall of Fame, I nearly ran over Pete Rose. Driving too quickly around a corner, he suddenly appeared at my right front bumper. Slamming on my brakes, I grinned a little and waved at him. He smiled and waved, never missing a step as he continued across the street. Good Lord, I thought. I almost hit Pete Rose. And this wasn’t to be the highlight of that trip to Cooperstown.  

Like most museums, the Hall keeps the vast majority of its treasures behind glass. You can look at Ty Cobb’s famous spikes, or Babe Ruth’s uniform, but you can’t touch them. I understand, of course. As I made my way past all the cases and displays of baseball history, I contented myself with putting my face to the glass, adding my smudges to the scores before me who had come to worship “our game.” Bats, scorecards, baseballs, catcher’s masks, photographs and trophies were all there on display. To look at, but not to touch. Then I turned a corner and saw an old wooden bench off by itself. Above it was a small plaque. I read what was on it, sat down carefully onto the bench, and burst into tears.  

It was Connie Mack’s bench. If you don’t know him, Connie Mack played, managed, and was a Major League owner from 1886 until 1954. His teams won 5 World Series and he managed the most wins in Major League history. As a manager, he’s known for wearing a suit to games and sitting on a bench outside the dugout. He had sat on this very bench. It really wasn’t much to look at, but for a baseball lover like me, oh what it meant. I was touching something touched by a legend of the game. It was, for me, a very powerful moment.  

And it reminded me why I’m a Catholic. Bear with me now. When I was a Protestant, my faith was grounded in Scripture and preaching. It was a solid enough foundation, but I needed more. It seemed to me like the Jesus of the Gospels was being kept all clean and shiny behind glass. We learned about a Savior Who hung out with tax collectors and whores, Who enjoyed good wine and a laugh with His friends. He cured people with spit! But on Sunday mornings, I felt like Jesus was being kept at arm’s length—wonderful to look at, but don’t touch. Like the treasures in Cooperstown, if you’ll allow me to make that stretch. But as a Catholic, I experience Jesus in the most intimate union of all in Holy Communion. My senses are overwhelmed with the scent of incense, the feel of holy oils, the beauty of the stained glass, and glory of the statues of my Lord and His family and friends. My heart is raised to heaven with the ancient and beautiful music of the Mass. And my Lord becomes a part of me in the bread and wine of the Holy Eucharist.  

I know it’s asking a lot of you to let me compare Connie Mack’s bench to the Catholic Church. But think of the woman in Matthew, chapter 9 who had been sick for 12 years. She had great faith in Jesus to heal her. She could have just asked Him for healing, but she wanted to touch the hem of His garment. She had faith that that simple touching would heal her. And it did. Because Jesus willed her to be healed in that way. He created us as sensual beings, not as pure spirits. He became a man, like one of us, even though He could have saved us in any way that He willed. Just as he could have brought me to Himself in any way that He willed. He gave us His Church. He gave us the Sacraments,. It was through the Catholic Church that Jesus called me to follow him and His Church continues to nourish and sustain me in all my senses, my intellect, and my will. I live my life in great gratitude for that calling. (P.S. Connie Mack was Catholic, too).  

For she thought: If I just touch His garments, I will be healed.”

           —-Matthew 9:21