“The Blind Guy” & Jesus

Posted on October 13, 2015 by Rev. Joe Jagodensky, SDS.

blindheitThe blind guy approaches Jesus and Jesus asks him, “What do you want?” as though a laugh track would surely follow if it were a situation comedy.  His disciples keep the blind guy at bay because the blind guy is disturbing the big guy but the big guy requests the blind guy’s presence and asks blind guy the stupidest question ever asked of another human being.  But is it?

Jesus asked a deaf guy what he wanted but was surprised that the deaf guy went away discouraged.  (You may wish to read that sentence once again.)

Perhaps the blind guy is comfortable with his not seeing the lottery numbers he buys each week but now wants Jesus to just give him the winning jackpot numbers.  Perhaps the blind guy is blinded to his many failed relationships and he’s alone yet again.  Perhaps the blind guy is blinded to the many sins he’s committed even though society’s turned a “blind eye” but his faithful gut sees clearly.  Perhaps, and this is the last one, that the blind guy is just blinded to all within him and he’s hit a fork in the road and can’t tell his left from right because…. well, he’s blind.

Jesus, as always, asks the right question and response to the right person.  “Get behind me Satan,” he says to Peter when Peter told him there’s a easier way out for him in this salvation history story.  “You don’t give leftovers to dogs,” says Jesus to the woman on her knees.  “Look for yourself and poke your fingers into my side,” Jesus said to Doubting Thomas – but please wash use Purell when you’re finished.  “Peace be with you,” Jesus says to his troubled apostles as they conveniently hid themselves away after his crucifixion.

Jesus doesn’t ask the blind guy, “Do you want to see?” a question all of us would naturally ask.  Jesus doesn’t ask the blind guy, “Would seeing help you find a wife and win that lottery jackpot?”

The miracles of Jesus are miracles because they begin with him and are then completed within us.  Miracles are not really miracles because it’s the simple acknowledgment that there is more that lies before and lives within us.  With the help of Jesus, we are able to accomplish it.

Our blindness is about being side-swiped, back-ended or hit head-on and our sight is dimmed if not diminished.

The miracle of Jesus is that they are not miracles. Miracles are something out of nothing. That’s not the Jesus MO.  Jesus empowers us to uncover what already lives and breathes within us.  Jesus reawakens our slumbering sleep.  Jesus wakes us up.  Jesus invites those sleepy qualities of peace that we thought we lost but can truly never lose – perseverance, strength, wisdom, prudence, knowledge and fear of the Lord breaking the Rip Van Winkle patterns of our lives and perform the un-miraculous but miraculous gift of awareness.

Blind guy doesn’t need sight, he needs insight.  Blind guy doesn’t need Lasik surgery but needs divine qualities to help him stop those fruitless lottery purchases and to seriously consider who he is and who he is with when he meets a prospective mate.

There is nothing magical about it.  It’s a miracle between you and Jesus and then honored and celebrated and offered back to God with all of us in this church.

books by Fr. Joe Jagodensky, SDS, available in paperback or Kindle at Amazon:
“Soulful Musings”
“Living Life’s Mysteries”
“Spiritual Wonderings and Wanderings”
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“The Container Store”

Posted on October 4, 2015 by Rev. Joe Jagodensky, SDS.

WESOpened for three weeks, the store is packed with people like me on a cloudy Saturday afternoon.  Loads of people in need of containers to contain their stuff at home; stuff that’s not use a lot… like that mother-in-law gift or something that’s important to you but you can’t remember what its importance is anymore.  (How much stuff can we stuff?)

The first thing that I noticed is that the store is packed with stuff and more stuff but it’s empty.  Empty.  There’s nothing in the container store but empty stuff.  And folks around me are excited about viewing empty stuff.  “Look mom, this could hold that thing that you have in your closet,” says the awakening young daughter to her mother.  For she know now that she lives in a country that sells empty things to be filled with things are already living within your homes.   All sizes of empty containers are staring at you, to be purchased by you to place already purchased things within it.

There are even very large empty containers to place purchased things so you are able to place them in your storage vault that you purchase on a monthly basis to contain those things that you need to keep because “this or that” may creep up in your unforeseen future (which is redundant, by the way) and you’d be left without the “that or this.”   But alas.  We are safe now because we have our very own “Container Store” located right next to Mayfair Mall.  So, you see all those things we now buy at Mayfair Mall now have a place for themselves.  We buy at the mall and then walk over to “The Container Store” to buy something to hold them in.

“Under the bed containers” for $35.00 amused me the most because that’s the last place crooks will look after grabbing our 72″ flat screen TV and laptop.  What’s in those containers under the bed?  Sweaters, gloves preparing for Wisconsin’s long and even longer winters?  During wintertime do those hidden-under-the-bed containers contain bathing suits and t-shirts that yearn for you to let them out?  “Please let me out, let me out!” says the bathing suits and t-shirts.

Containers of every kind fill shelves and more shelves and rows and more rows.  (For a store that sells empty objects it is amazing how many there are.)  All of these containers are empty now waiting for you to fill them up with those necessary things that are rarely used (read that phrase once more please) but need to be contained and then re-contained somewhere within your home.

Shelves are also for sale but I don’t consider a shelve a “container.”  A shelve holds or houses things but it does not contain them.  You can, however, place a container on a shelve.  I meant to speak to the manager about this corporate oversight but she was busy explaining this store to fellow neophytes.

The pope’s eleventh commandant was not a joke, “If you don’t use it, see it or need it in six months – then give it to the poor.”

It seems we are able to contain the stuff we use and the stuff we barely use but wouldn’t you agree that we have difficulty with the stuff of our lives we seem unable to contain.  Such as past pains, hurts, regrets, setbacks, remissions and regressions.  (I’m a priest, where did you think this was leading?)

“A place for everything and everything in its place,” my 8th grade nun told us repeatedly.  At 12 years old it didn’t mean much but her words have echoed.  She was probably referring to dirty socks when we got home from playing but I’m referring now to all the mishaps, misfortunes, mistakes and minuses of our lives.  Those just seem  to linger, sometimes haunt or otherwise just lay in wait to wreck a happy moment.

Faith is a container for all the roamings of our past life.  The definition of religion is to organize.  It is our personal faith that leads us to this religion.  No matter if it was a slip of the tongue or a tragedy (for we know that the past can never be undone…it can only be “contained”) read that last phrase one more time – finding a place to place hurts and wounds empowers and invites us to continue on with our lives with new insights, new hopes or new resolves.

Find a place for those useless past events that hold you back.

Under your bed sounds like a good place for them all.  You will truly sleep better at night because as the Psalmist says, “You set a table before me in the sight of my foes.”  This way you will always know where those hurts and wounds reside – carefully and securely contained beneath you where you are able to guard over them “all the days of your life.”

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NFL & Restaurants

Posted on October 4, 2015 by Rev. Joe Jagodensky, SDS.

indexForget your favorite NFL team and the millions gathered and spent.  And forget your favorite symphony orchestra, if you have one. Just visit your local low end “family” restaurant to see perfect harmony and synchronization. Meals are ordered and prepared in record time. Amid all the hustle and bustle there is ballet feel filling the whole place. To the customer’s eye, everything appears chaotic, disorderly.  Tables are quickly bused clean before you exit the door, peculiar orders are honored and your coffee cup is never half empty. (There is a class system to these places as though it’s a government of its own. Only women wait on you. Only young Hispanic men bus your table.  Only Hispanic old men cook your food.  No other ethic or gender group. The cashier is always an older man unless it’s a female relative. Those are the rules, spoken or otherwise.

There are no “official” rules, just the routine that became a habit. The perfunctory, “How was your meal?” (without caring what your answer is) is met with my usual response, “Fine.” I’m scared to delve deeper and share my personal feelings or thoughts about the meaning of life and so upset the order of things making the cashier look up and see me.

The only referee I see is the old guy sitting in a booth next to the cashier.  I don’t think he really cares about anything more than that beautiful sound when the bill is registered.  The whole event seems “sudden death” to me as each order is written down, hooked to the carousel and swung around for the old cook to find, finding the prepared dish and swinging it carefully to the table along with plenty of smiles.  The only “time out” is the distance between breakfast and lunch and then  between lunch and dinner.  Even during those times, time is spent filling up salts and peppers and rolling utensils into paper napkins.

The entire staff could easily be called the “working poor.” Did you ever think you’d hear an expression like that in a First World country? A bumper sticker reads, “Instead of spreading the wealth, why not spread the work ethic.” Were is that easy. The work ethic I witness there in one shift is more energy that I expend in a week’s time. It is constant, unending.  All for the meager tip given by the working poor who eat there (minus one) for the working poor waitress who serve them.

If the whole experience were shown in slow motion with a beautiful symphony in the background, it would make your jaw drop as you try to say, “Wow!” There is a perfection of work by these “working poor” folks that would envy any “ethic.” The rhythms and the cohesiveness to all these workers who, for a short time, become a unified whole.

How much do they make an hour? How much do tips bring it? Do then have their own bathroom? Locker?  I don’t know. But for a $7.00 breakfast along with her smile, my hat is tipped to them all, along with a nice tip for a game well played.

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Airplane Story, American Style

Posted on September 28, 2015 by Rev. Joe Jagodensky, SDS.

3NumberThreeInCircleHeard another airplane story but this one intrigued me.  If you fly enough, I’m sure you have one or two juicy stories of your own.  It’s bound to happen with 300 strangers sharing knees and elbows for two hours or more and having watched far too many airplane movies where only Bruce Willis and the cute kid you see at the beginning but then forget about survives.  Each passenger, of course, has a reason whether it’s going home, signing the divorce papers, visiting the son who never visits you, the long awaited vacation, the job interview, the death of a good friend, continuing the affair you promised your wife was ended, buy/sell something, a last minute flight because it’s free because you work for an airline (that’s the one I like), finally going to propose after a five year engagement.  I guess you get the composite of diversity among 300 strangers.

The flight attendant kindly announces that a mother and child are standby and were not able to find a seat together.  Nothing big about that, must happen all the time.  “If anyone is interested in switching seats to accommodate this mother and child, it is appreciated.  The plane is complete silence as though a moment of prayer was called for before the departure.  Pause and a longer pause.

(32B) “He looks old enough to me to be alone.”
(27A) “I planned this window seat and I’m not giving it up for ‘standby’.”
(2A) “I’m in Business Class, this doesn’t concern me.”  “Another drink please?”

The attendant returns to the microphone and says, “It is important for this mother and child to fly together.  We are asking if anyone is willing to help us make this trip more enjoyable.”  Silence returns with heads bowed as though a second prayer is offered before departure.  Pause and a longer pause.

(55D)  “I hate this seat so why would she like it?”
(12C)  “The kid has to grow up, what better time than now.  Stop coddling the kid, mom.”
(38A) “I’m ‘standby’ and you don’t hear me doing this.  It’s entitlement once again, plain and simple.”

The mic is turned on again and the captain’s voice is heard, “This mother and child would very much like to travel together.  We’d like some volunteers to switch seats to make this happen.  This airplane will not leave until it happens.”

I’m told a couple of people got up to give up their seats.  I suspect it was “the adulterer” who wishes to reach his destination and “the death of a good friend.”  (I’m trying to balance this story.)

It took St. Peter three times to hear what he was saying about Jesus.  Jesus was buried for the same amount, 10 times that and you have Judas’ payoff, every joke has three parts, the Trinity is well that, and we have the “ready, set” formula that also seems to work.

I’m sure they were all happy that mother and child remained united (cue Paul Simon) and that they participated in a grand act of kindness that did not involve them.

Time for a movie?

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“It’s Just Not Me”

Posted on September 27, 2015 by Rev. Joe Jagodensky, SDS.

imagesIt’s not me,” we all say to ourselves at different points or predicaments in our lives.  “It’s just not me.”

  This statement, “It’s not me” is declared (or yelled!) because our well carved out plans we’ve all planned for and have diligently made happen for ourselves in both our personal and professional lives are being un-carved by something or someone.  This “It isn’t my stuff” is not supposed to happen to our carvings.  Other people’s, yeah, but not ours.

Yet.  It’s those unexpected and intrusions that define and redefines who we are as men and women, or add an adjective…as man and women in the Christian tradition, if you wish.

“Unintended consequences” is our society’s cute, nice phrase for those not-so-nice but awkwardly, necessary intrusions.

I knew that it was me but nobody else thought that way about me while in my high school seminary after 8th grade. How’d that happen?  Picking scrimmage teams in high school the reluctant picker’s response was, “Well, okay, We’ll take Joe.”  (I was the last one standing!  Choice?!)  Concession or choice?  Pity?  I think you get the message.

Observe your life from afar for a moment and now this small, living, breathing thing is in front of you and needs to be feed, cared for and watched over.  And feeding is far more than once a day.  And don’t tell me that you sometimes think to yourself, this is just “not me.”  “It’s just not me.”  But it is.  And this kid looks up to you as if you are the beginning and end of life (which at this point you are!) – through a child’s eyes you are entirely the beginning of everything and the arbitrator of all things important that relate to this small thing that consumes most of your household foods.  Do you know what happens to consumed food?  It suddenly becomes do-do. And why is it called “do do” when it’s “done done?”

So not only is feeding your child a daily task but your kid’s cleansing of that food only to have it repeated tomorrow. So you say to yourself, “This is definitely not me” while holding out for those future Brewer games or someday visits to the Zoo.

Your child’s eyes only see purity or clear vision – it’s a clarity of love that only God envies. Because you see, God only holds your child’s attention in the Bible stories you tell at night but you get to touch those tiny hands and those awakening eyes and those endless questions beginning with “why” and ending with your useless responses.  And you say to yourself, “It’s not me…but, but.”  “It’s just not me.”

But back to me.  In my seminary high school there were sixty of us guys sleeping and snoring together in a huge dorm and only one of them became a priest.  Quess which one? Is it an historical fluke or is it God’s fluke?  In graduate school I learned terms like the “hypostatic union,” “hermeneutics,” “I Thou” relationship; I was taught quick defenses when “justification by faith alone” arguments would be launched at me by protestants, Latin terms that would dazzle you…but only after you had a few cocktails…yet…I discovered that at cocktail parties these things never, ever came up.  Wasted graduate money when the question most asked of a pastor is about postponing that raffle because it conflicts with our Friday Fish Fry.  “It’s not me.”  “It’s just not me.”

(Alas, if only you knew that I, personally, hold answers to questions you’ve never asked.)

And yet Your aging father is in a nursing home and his life decisions are all yours now along with his weekly laundry and his constant complaining that he never sees you and you say to yourself, “It’s not me.”  “It’s just not me.

”

The neighbor’s hedge is way too high as you pull out of your driveway each morning and you’ve reminded her countless times about them and she thinks to herself, “It’s not me.”  After all, “it’s not me” affects other people as well as yourself.

“It’s not me,” you say to yourself as your 50 year old body begins to talk to you.  You didn’t even know that it could talk but it’s talking now – every day.  Your body says that “It hurts here; no, I meant there; no, I mean behind and near there.”   You clearly discover now that it was much easier talking to your young child than  talking back to your body.  The kid listened intently waiting for the Bible story’s ending, your body now has a mind of its own and you dread the ending.  “It’s not me.”  

I guess you get the point.

I’ve been doing this preaching stuff for 35 years and I’m the guy who worries about my stuttering in front of you, every single Sunday.  I’m supposed to be standing before you each time and deliver something of substance and meaning. Well, they said that it wasn’t me but it ended up with you listening to my ramblings about stuff I think about. I love it.
(And really, I was taught the answers, just ask me the right questions!)

When we say “it’s not me,”…could it be that perhaps, maybe, luckily, providential that God… perhaps, maybe, luckily or providentially had something to do with it?

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“The Others”

Posted on September 18, 2015 by Rev. Joe Jagodensky, SDS.

imagesI kindly told them not to look at me when they pass by me.  Those seated around me may think that I either know them or pity them but that’s not the point of being in Business Class.  They are to walk with eyes straight ahead carrying all their superfluous carry-ons and maximum-sized bags because $20.00 was far outside their price range.

They all parade ( or “corral” would be a better word) to their tiny seats in the back of the plane.  I’ve forgotten what that area of the plane looks like.  I think it’s closer to their bathrooms.  And I mean “their” bathrooms.  Sometimes, in the boring-beginning-flight attendant lectures some say “please use the bathroom closest to you” which means when the First Class curtains are closed we’d prefer (or insist) that your bathroom be in your area.

I’m stopped at a red light and a black person at a bus stop looks at me and instantly looks down as though there’s cotton to be picked.  I just smiled at the person.

My sisters and I will laugh about this whole travel thing when we arrive and wait for our cruise.  They saved money and I didn’t care.  The black person I care about and truly wished the head would now stand high.

Their my sisters, by the way and I love them but divisions is what helps us comfortably divide the divided.

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A Simple Sentence or Phrase

Posted on September 17, 2015 by Rev. Joe Jagodensky, SDS.

indexIt’s the way we connect to each other.  It’s been said that the shoes noticed first but it’s the words than endure.  A simple “that was good” can carry the day for you, perhaps even a few more when recalled and appreciated.

St. Peter says to Jesus in a sheepish voice, “Lord, to whom can we go when you have the words of eternal life?”  Focus turns on Jesus and the words that follow.  Eternal life may be a bit off for some or closer for others but there are “eternal life” words we can use every day with those we meet.

“That’s a pretty dress on you” will not produce a law suit unless you’re the boss.  Us lower folks can get away with that phrase but the recipient will wear that dress again and again and remember those words.  Even an odd question like, “You don’t seem yourself today?” can unleash the sick son story or the belligerent daughter tale and you’ve just invited her to taste the “eternal life” of a kind phrase allowing her to share some troubles with you.  A friend told me one day that I seemed sad.  I didn’t but appreciate the concern and insight.  It made me rethink if indeed I was sad or just reflective.  I chose reflective.

You didn’t need to provide a solution of provide a silly Dr. Phil soft comment.  You’ve offered “eternal life” for a tomorrow to someone struggling today.

What’s the timing on your consumed time?  Ten seconds to say it and a couple of minutes to listen?  Or ten seconds to say it and 1.2 seconds to see the beaming smile.

Eternal life, thought of as that place after we die denies its pleasures here in the Kingdom of God Jesus won for us.  That kingdom is truly here.  That quick observation is sacredly shared and amazingly received.  If that’s not the glory of something bigger than us then I don’t know what is.

So, I guess it wasn’t the shoes after all.

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The Backward Clock

Posted on September 16, 2015 by Rev. Joe Jagodensky, SDS.

young__middle_aged__old_by_happybunnyboyShaving one morning I glanced through the mirror at the clock behind me and noticed that it was moving backwards.  I turned around and the spin of the second hand was correct but through the mirror it was the opposite.

Throughout that day I was “backwarding” myself beginning with July, ’52, then November, ’63, then September ’69, May, ’75, June, ’76, June ’79, September, ’79, May, ’80, September, ’82, February, ’92, June, ’92, December, ’94, December ’14.  Those dates mean nothing to you because you have your own “back” dates.  Mark your times and those circumstances along with that smell or sound, what you were wearing and who you were with and what you were thinking and what the future or the past meant by that date.

Shaving reminded me that my “back” is now far longer than my “forward.”  In our U.S. culture preoccupied with youthful stuff this “back” is lamented to its utmost extreme but to one who has a “back,” I find it both comforting and fulfilling.  The “forward” now is pure fluff, extra innings, sudden death, the extra mile, the last herrah, the fat lady will eventually sing her song, the party’s close to ending, close the door on your way out, pick up your stuff before you leave.  It’s the “back” that fills me up because it has filled me up.

Just listen to someone over 80 who is up to date on today’s topics but will just as quickly shave herself quickly back to her “back” and her loving, deceased husband of sixty-five years or the five bedroom home of 45 years she needed to sell.  We all listen to her and think to ourselves how sad her life turned out when her life turned out exactly and un-exactly as she planned.  As only life has been and will continue to be

I was interviewed by a young person for a podcast and he asked me about my ups and downs.  At his young age he asked me if I would change anything.  I smiled and said, “Absolutely not because I would not be the person I am today.”  He didn’t respond but smiled at me as though he thinks he knows what his future holds.  “Stay tuned, young man,” I wanted to say but didn’t.

Shavings a tricky business for us guys.  I don’t know what it’s like on the legs but the “backward” works with all its memories – remembered slightly remembered, somewhat remembered or reinvented. The “forward” stretches of my razor are now a cinch because I always know I have my “back” covered.

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“First World” Dilemma

Posted on September 14, 2015 by Rev. Joe Jagodensky, SDS.

NXVnTTdINEVFS1Ux_o_first-world-problems-read-by-third-world-people(Sunday sermon, St. Sebastians Parish, Milwaukee, WI.  References are local.)

I apologize for having to trouble you with this today but it’s been weighing heavily on my mind for several weeks now and I can’t keep seem to get it out of my mind.   Yes, there have been sleepless nights and yes, alcohol has been involved…but, well, here I go.  I’m going to take a big risk here but, but…should I cancel DirectTV or not?  I’ve looked for support groups for this kind of thing but, do you believe it – there are none!  I’m on my own as only America wants me to be.  I did an internet search for “loser folks who want to cancel DirectTV” and couldn’t find anything. I couldn’t find just one.  Where are those kindred people when you need them the most!  Those folks who are at parties with me and smile at me at the right times and engage in small talk with me…where are they now in my time of DirectTV need? Today I graciously ask for your prayers and your support, (cough) financial support, that is.  The second collection today is to help me pay the ETF, which I learned stands for “early termination fee.”  Your generosity is appreciated…and in gratitude there’s a five dollar gift certificate to “Cranky Al’s” for every $20.00 you give me because, you know, we Americans only give to worthy, worthwhile causes if we get something back.  That’s the American way, isn’t it?  Giving for the sake of giving just doesn’t cut it any longer. People of our first world country preoccupy themselves with what? – itself – along with there is waaay too much overtime time spent on dwelling with minor, trivial things instead of the greater things of our community, our country, our world – we seem to be quite pleased with ourselves, we seem to be quite pleased with who we are as people of God.  Aren’t we?  “Should that back wall in my front room be a cream or a light pink color, I’m not sure.”  Years ago I was in Chiapas, Mexico with the Mayan Indians.  The morning meal the mom prepared for us was delicious.   When we finished breakfast the mom immediately and I mean immediately began to prepare lunch.  I was blown away when I saw this unfold each day.  There were no breaks between meals in providing food for working and hungry people and every one of the meals was made from scratch.

Did you know that the Mayans are to the Mexicans what Blacks are to Whites in our first world, always-right country?  How poorer can a poor people get?  My unfunny joke is that the Whites look down on the Blacks, the Blacks look down on the Puerto Ricans and the Puerto Ricans look down on the Mexicans who then look down on, you guessed it, the poor people of Chiapas.  The Mayans are presently looking for a class lower to look down upon so if you know of any available poorer group please let them know. As first-world people are we even able anymore to consider greater and broader issues and events in the lives of people other than our own?  As first-world people are we even able anymore to consider greater and broader issues and events in the lives of people other than our own? Here’s the point of my sermon in case you wish to read the bulletin: If you begin thinking that your life is small (but super important) then your life will remain small (with a huge illusion of super importance).  If you begin thinking your life is small but you are able to make your life bigger and enlarge it through your prayers, your thoughts and your actions then you and your “first world” life will be bigger; much, much bigger.

First World: “What color is the couch is in your living room? “I’m still not sure of the color I chose.” (Copying your neighbor makes for good guests.)
Third World: “I wonder if it’s safe to drink this water.”

First World: ”How big should my toilet be? I am now the proud owner of a “two flusher-handle” on my toilet…one for number 1 and a second for number 2. I needed to take a MATC class to get the sequence down right.”
Third World: “Will my son and daughter live beyond 20 years?”

First World: Donald Trump’s hair.
Third World: Having a dictator-type, duly elected president with big corporate funding.

First World: “Tonight, is it Bel Air or that new Vietnamese restaurant?”
Third World: “Our crop may be ruined by that last big rainstorm.”

This stuff is not easy. “Camel color or blood red for the bedroom walls.”  ”Oh, that blood-red color is so yesterday and her curtains are draped to the floor…”Who does she think she is?” …First World. I fear we’ve all become “Valley Girls” – male and female – in our self contained compartments whose accessories make us relevant and real.  The saddest part of our humanity is that the curtains and the wall colors make us feel alive. Make us fee real.  ”Just look how relevant I am, I have a smart TV…,” which isn’t very smart unless I’m the dumb one. El Salvador is prayed for each week, including today and what do we know about them…we know that a small group of white people visit there from time to time…Anyone ever google it?  Does anyone look on a map that extents beyond WTMJ’s weather map that begins at Sheboygan and ends at Racine?  The extent of our TV weather map ends the vast and diverse world that we First Worldly people have the luxury to avoid…ignore…forget about. And if you think that I’m mocking you or your lifestyle, you’re wrong because I’m included.  I signed up to go El Salvador along with those “white folks” and chickened out at the last minute.

Let me try a different approach in case you’ve dismissed me during the first.  We all abhor the word “victim” unless it applies to ourselves and then we call Habush, Habush, Habush, Habush and the other guy to see what the Habush clan and the other guy can do for us.  They send us sadly away.  Can we be “victims” of a first world environment over which we had no control except that our parents moved here?  Can we say anything less for our “third world” folks?  Victim means that something happened to us and we had no control.  Victimization is terrible when it brutally occurs  and it is the same terrible when accepted, blindly or otherwise.  First World folks gladly accept “victim” applied to us because we enjoy and take for granted the goods that make our lives as good as they are.  “Goods,” a word that applies to both supplies and to an attitude.  “It is good for us to be here,” people say each week in churches throughout the U.S.  The Psalm today was giving thanks to God for the goodness God supplies us each day.  Two different applications but one word.  Goodness.  If First World people accept that they are victims than perhaps a breakthrough to God’s mandates may make sense to us because then we are no longer victims but active players in a church that welcomes activism and in a culture that needs them. And God found that good.

Folks, we are in this “first world” dilemma together.  We got it too good, we don’t know what to do about, we want to do more but how often do we.  We need to question and challenge ourselves on a regular basis (which is called “prayer”, by the way).   What persistent voice is heard in our minds?  Is it God’s voice of peace and justice for our world and reflected through our lives – even with the smallest part of our bigger selves that we can share?  Or is it “that cream color or a soft pink color on that back wall that will balance off and compliment the other walls, especially the carpet.” Isaiah says that God opened his ears to hear (to hear ourselves but also the cries of so many others)..can God open our eyes to see beyond our comfortable eyes the uglier aspects of the world that we also inhabit.  Can God give us ears to hear struggling voices that we will never personally hear?  Can God give us feet that truly walks along side each person instead of behind or in front.  Can we allow others to taste the satisfaction of going to bed every night without putting a gun under their pillow?  Is it possible for others to taste what we taste?  Or is it just for us?  Or is it just a “third world” problem or a “that neighborhood problem?”  I often kid priests who send kids to Appalachia for a week for a mission experience.  “Why not send them to 3rd and Burleigh for a week?” I ask.  But that would be too close to home.  That would narrow that TV weather map to a “third world” experience along side our comfortable “first world” neighborhoods. Like 20 minutes away.  But this is America and I love this country.  But we…no, forget the word “we,” I am on my own and like it or not, I’m going to do this.  I will.

Can God please open our hearts (your wallets, actually) to contribute to this needy fund to help me decide whether to cancel DirectTV or not?  It agonizes me to no end and I don’t think you appreciate how important this is to me.  I’ve already texted seven friends about this…even while driving…(“because I can do text safely and no one else can”…American thinking?) and no one can help me.  Seven other friends changed the subject when I brought up DirectTV to them.  I’ve posted my dilemma on Facebook but no one has “Liked” me.  (Please “like” me on Facebook after Mass today.)  No one cares about my small life and the isolation I’ve created for myself.  My “First World” life is worthless….

(walking away saying…)
“Cream or a light pink?…I think a soft green or a variation of blue might work in the den but not the front room, but I’m not sure.”  God…I sound like I live in the Highlands.

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Packerland, “‘Tis the Season”

Posted on September 13, 2015 by Rev. Joe Jagodensky, SDS.

Men-s-Nike-Green-Bay-Packers-12-Aaron-Rodgers-Limited-Green-Team-Color-NFL-Jersey-18066I met Aaron Rodgers today in the mall. No kidding.  I didn’t know that he was black.  I then met him again near Boston Store but he was Asian.  No kidding.  Still, – one more -I met Aaron outside Victoria Secret and he’s a woman!  (Bruce, step aside.)  Aaron’s quite a guy in Wisconsin as the Packer season begins and all thoughts and dreams are linear…whether this year or not?

I care as much about the Packers as I do about Hillary’s emails but I do care about the issues pushed aside during these boring weeks of ups and downs from employees at work endlessly talking about people I don’t know (and they don’t know either) while how many social issues persist remain to be persisted.  When I belittle employees about their Packer loyalty they tell me that it’s a clean escape from the issues of the day and these are the same people who multi-task at work when can I barely get my one task completed.

But it’s the jersey name that intrigues me on the back of a 20 or a 50 year old.  The jersey costs $119.00 or $94.00 for Aarons’.  (Please read that sentence a second time!)  That doesn’t include the hat; I’m sorry the cap on the head of a bald man who’s only driven past exercise places and promised his wife 30 years ago to attend one.

Identity is a pretty personal and cherished thing in our culture and in our minds.  I’d need an agent before I were to wear green and gold with someone else’s name on my back.  Identity is hard won and I would prefer people know me as who I am and not some Aaron somebody who replaced the guy we once loved, then loved to hate and then loved again.  I can’t remember his name.

Besides, green and gold aren’t my colors.  I would, however, wear a black and white jersey if it said “Mel Torme” on the back.  At least, I’d be closer to my identity than that Asian guy is to Aaron.

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