“It Is What It Is”

Posted on April 26, 2014 by Rev. Joe Jagodensky, SDS.

ImageLike fingernails on a chalkboard I hear those five words way too much.  Twice last week which is low.  To me it says nothing but to the speaker it seems to speak volumes.  Two repeating words with a “what” in the middle is supposed to summarize one’s present predicament.

It is often said as a an conclusion as though there is nothing more to say on the subject.  I guess you could call it a spoken period.  Where’s Reinhold Niebuhr when you need him?

Are we that quick to sell out and resign?  It is not even resignation because that would imply a recognition that nothing more can be done about a particular situation.  “I am resigned to this,” is not the same as saying, “It is what it is.”  Two pronouns that represent nothing says something about our English education. If the subject is marriage (which it often is) then the concluding statement leaves me baffled as I walk away.  “Was he talking about the sorrow or grief or talking about the unknown future,” I think to myself.  “Please, try to think of a noun.”  It helps the listener (i.e. me) immensely.

Where would the great protestors of our culture be if that phrase was thrown out at a civil rights rally or gay rally or Vietnam protest or women’s rights or how many others we can recall.  The reason for those gatherings was that whatever the “it” was, it was the “it” that gathered the group to change the present “it” to a different or new “it.”  Don’t you sometimes hate pronouns?  Niebuhr gives us three approaches to life with a concluding prayer that gathers all three together.  The repeating pronouns with “what” in the middle gives us nothing; or could you call it despair?  I’ve learned to hear it as a “dead end” which makes the chalkboard’s sound all the more bothersome.  We are smart and educated here in the U.S. so how we can so easily condense and nutshell our lives into repeating pronouns with a “what” in the middle?  Naming the “what” may very well lead us to a new direction or understanding in and of our lives.

God, give me grace to accept with serenity
the things that cannot be changed,
Courage to change the things
which should be changed,
and the Wisdom to distinguish
the one from the other.
Living one day at a time,
Enjoying one moment at a time,
Accepting hardship as a pathway to peace,
Taking, as Jesus did,
This sinful world as it is,
Not as I would have it,
Trusting that You will make all things right,
If I surrender to Your will,
So that I may be reasonably happy in this life,
And supremely happy with You forever in the next.
Amen.

 

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Easter Sunday

Posted on April 21, 2014 by Rev. Joe Jagodensky, SDS.

I’ve tried to keep it a secret but I’ve been in Rehab for the past two weeks.  It’s called “Priests Who Think Too Highly Of Themselves.”  I was surprised by the large number who attend.  I was told there’s a waiting list.

One exercise was working with clay.  “Sounds easy,” I thought.  We were to think of something that’s important to us that we could create from clay.  I chose an ashtray.  It was my job to design, shape and configure this object the way I wanted it to be.  How many slots for the cigarette?  (One, I live alone and my cats don’t smoke.)  How deep does it need to be?  “Pretty deep,” I surmise.  Fancy border around the ring?  “Why not,” I conclude.  So I created my ashtray in an image and likeness that, well, reflects the image and likeness of its creator, me.

You probably already know where I’m going with my little tale.  No matter what happens to my silly ashtray, it will always be my creation.  If it gets old and worn, I’ll still remember it from its origin.  If it gets cracked, broken or fragmented, I’ll just save the lost pieces and perhaps glue them back or just hold on to those pieces, patiently, because I created it whole and I want it to remain whole.

Creator God created us whole and complete.  No creator will allow a creation to go abandoned or lost or broken.  Too much of the creator has been invested in the creation.  There is the personal investment as well as the frenzied life of the created object.  Isaiah tells us that even if a mother forgets her child, how can…

We seem to enjoy dwelling on our sin and our unworthiness as an impetus for a reunion with God and our lost pieces while all this time we didn’t need that kind of thinking because we are the created – created from a Creator who will never and can never forget what was created – even if it splinters, snaps or breaks and some pieces get lost or at least forgotten about.  All the pieces remain just where the Creator created them.  Along with the Maker’s help, we can remake what was misplaced, lost or broken.

The Creator always has the whole of creation in His mind.  His creation can only end the way it was created; in an image of goodness, likeness and the image of the One who created.

I can’t spend too much time here, it’s macrame day this afternoon.

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The Hand Written Note

Posted on April 17, 2014 by Rev. Joe Jagodensky, SDS.

Image“There’s that silver pen that I haven’t used for quite a while.  I thought I put it in that drawer but I must have moved it.”

A note.  Thoughts shared between two people with no other audience.  A note.  Hand written to make words have meaning.  A note.  Saved and savored, some forever.

“Oh, the pen was right were I left it on the shelve.  Now, where’s all that stationary that I’ve been saving and haven’t used for years.  Good, there it is.  Let’s see, how do I begin.”

A phone’s text message gives the facts, Twitter has a limit with no feeling, Instagram eludes me and an email tries but always fails to convey something more.

“Ummm, where to start, where to begin.  It’s just a ‘thank you’ note but I want to convey how much I felt about our time together.  ‘Hi,’ ‘Greetings,’ ‘Dear,’ all seem to be ambiguous and vague.  Well, I like ‘Dear’ for its proper beginning.  Oh goodness, look at my handwriting after years of computer typing.  I can barely read it, how am I to expect my friend to enjoy this hand written note.  Oh, it doesn’t matter because this is authentic.”

Telephone calls are still in operation, you can always leave a message.  You can also assume your gratitude toward the enjoyable evening with your friend and know that she enjoyed it as well.  You can also talk about the previous enjoyable evening during the next unplanned enjoyable evening with your friend in the unknown future.  After all, we are all going to live forever.

“Just look at my lines, they all uphill.  When did I start to write this way.  Since I’m left-handed, some of the ink stays with my fingers and runs into the previous words.  Oh my, how did people do this years ago?”

There, finished.  I can’t proof read or correct it because it’s down there in all its glorious and dried ink.  It is forever written and preserved for my recipient. 

My email was sent an hour ago, my other technological methods were completed in less time and I’m now watching television and working on my next project.  I’m glad I sent that message to my good friend.

“I need to carefully fold the message and place it in the envelope.  I hate when the creases don’t match.  I left an envelope here somewhere, oh, there it is.  I’ll lick it closed and now carefully write the address on the front of the envelope along with my return address in case it needs to be returned to me after its days-long flight toward its destination.  Oh, that’s right!  The stamp!  I wonder what stamps cost these days.  I’ll do that tomorrow.  I hope she likes it, it’s my monogram in dark colors against a cream stationary.  I said everything that I want to say to her about the evening we spent together.  I hope that she receives it and likes it.  Oh wow.  Did I sign it?  I already sealed the envelope.  I’m sure I signed it, I was there when I was writing.  I’m sure of it.  It is finished.”

So, what is saved forever and what is deleted.  What holds and endures attention and what is dismissed in the midst of what is so much dismissible.

A lost art or just a loving art that’s been misplaced…at least for the moment?

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“The Kitchen Table”

Posted on April 16, 2014 by Rev. Joe Jagodensky, SDS.

ImageI was brought into their house when their number of children grew to five. The junior before me was put in the basement for laundry duty. It seems that I was “On Sale” which was not a comforting thought for me since I thought I was brand new. The parents seemed pleased when their eye caught mine. I was delivered and placed in the kitchen’s most prominent place. Matching chairs made me complete and ready for my first duty.

Plates, glasses of milk, silverware and hot plates adorned me each night for many, many years. When the call for supper was made I could see anxious little legs and feet dangle. The two bigger folks feet were firmly planted on the floor. At each meal the conversation suddenly grew loud after everyone said “Amen”. It wasn’t always important talk but things about school and the question often raised by one parent was, “Then why go to school if you’re not learning anything?” No answer was ever given to that unusual question.

Some nights, even after the dishes were washed and put away, one dangling pair of feet remained at the table. I could smell liver and onions but did not know why this lone one remained. It seems that turning off the kitchen lights did not prompt those feet to leave me. Some contest was going on and those little feet thought that she could win. Eventually the lights came back on and a single dish was washed. I never found out if she won or not.

Every year a repetitive song was sung for each child followed by clapping. I heard lots of laughter during those occasions along with wrapping paper strewn all around me. Some nights I would be awaken by a warm glass of milk laid on me and only one pair of legs, always the “planted” feet. I’d have to stay awake for that hour of so while hearing sighs or even a calculator or notes written.

Only on Christmas, Easter and Thanksgiving was a beautiful white garment placed upon me. (I think someone in the family made it.) On rare occasions the older man would pound on me to emphasize something he was trying to say but not doing a very good job of it because he needed to land his fist upon me. It didn’t hurt, I was made to last. (Even if “On Sale.”)

The most fun was watching those dangling bare feet in summer and wool socks in winter get longer as they reached toward the parent’s floor. The conversation seemed to be more formal; no more phrases or one words but now with complete sentences, concepts and quandaries. I began to also notice more nicks and scratches on me during those years. The older woman would sometimes polish me like a facial covering but it didn’t help. I didn’t care. I earned each nick from a broken glass or pencil markings or the Valentine’s heart that the boy and a strange girl tried to inscribe into me until one parent stopped it. Now I’m plagued with a “half heart” tattoo. I guess that makes my aging body feel contemporary, sort of.

If there’s to be an eighth sacrament, I think that, “legs” down, it ought to be me. In all humility, it’s me that gathered this tribe together at least once a day if not for card games, board games, permissions to marry, stuttering while admitting a pending divorce, needed loans (“only for awhile, trust me!”) but how many other significant and silly encounters that occurred on top of me. (No matter how beautiful you’ve crafted your living room, the guests will always, eventually and inevitably convene around me.) I know that sacraments are supposed to be a process and not an object but this object (notably me) brought together, sustained and weathered a family growing up together.

I often tell the huge flat screen in the living room that he’s the diversion but I’m the place where food is shared, stories are told, angers are waged and settled, secrets are shared and then broken and where division and then reunion occur. I deserve to be the eighth sacrament, if there is ever to be one.

I’m old now but still sturdy. All but one has left now, the others return for a short time but then leave again. Oh well, I’ve served a sacramental purpose. In my old age, I’m holding out for the “Antiques Roadshow” PBS program. Who knows, there may be another family with small dangling legs for me to serve.

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Holy Week – Wash, Rinse & Iron

Posted on April 7, 2014 by Rev. Joe Jagodensky, SDS.

ImageHoly Thursday
“Wash, Rinse, Iron” is these three days – Thursday, Friday, Saturday.  We “wash” on Holy Thursday, “rinse” on Good Friday and on Holy Saturday we “iron.”
I know it may sound disrespectful or ordinary but it is the ordinary that I want to point out.  These are just ordinary days for Jesus and the times in which he lived.  And these are just ordinary days in the time in which we live.  It’s just another day.
“Wash, Rinse, Iron.”  Thursday, Friday and Saturday.
Throughout the centuries we’ve embellished the stories about Jesus, don’t you think?  It’s not all as historical as it’s presented to be.  We did so (and do so) to make it important and very special to our Christian faith.  In other words, we’re trying to make “extra” what is really ordinary.
Monday was wash day for our family.  It was the day after the weekend that all our dirty laundry had to be presented to my mother.  (Boy, she must have so looked forward to Mondays.)  Gathered together, it was her tireless job to trapes down to our dark, dank basement to perform her weekly ritual.  Washing.  Lots of washing for a family of five not counting my parents.  That’s seven loads that needed unloading.
It’s such a simple human act that none of us look forward to it but feel it is imminent when we’re done to our last pair of underwear or socks.  There’s a hopeless feeling when the important wearings begin to smell.
Jesus gathered to observe a yearly ritual with his friends.  Just another year and just another ritual to complete.
Yet that night long ago, Jesus not only performed the weekly duty of washing clothes (or yearly ritual) but he changed it by personalizing it.  He gives the bread that all presiders gave that night but instead he called it himself.  He then shared wine with friends but insisted on calling it his blood. And both times we announced to those present that this food was offered for them.  Not for himself but for them.
When mom begrudgingly performs her Monday morning duty it is truly perceived as a duty if the emphasis is on her.  If she is able to turn it into a giving to others then it no longer is a duty, it then becomes a privilege, a sacrifice – if you will.
That’s washing.  That’s Holy Thursday.  If you want to harbor on sin tonight that’s fine but I prefer making an act of service to someone where the emphasis is on the other person and not yourself.
That’s Holy Thursday and that’s “Washing.”

Good Friday
“Wash, Rinse, Iron” is these three days – Thursday, Friday, Saturday.  We “wash” on Holy Thursday, “rinse” on Good Friday and on Holy Saturday we “iron.”
The odds are unlikely that we will be crucified so we can best identify with Our Lord through the ordinary, everyday lives we live; everyday.
Why “rinse” on this most graphic of the three days?  Of the three days, this is most attended by Catholic folks.  Why?  Well, it’s like that second look at the car accident intersection where the police car lights are blinking and the paramedics are loading up the wounded.  We can’t seem to resist slowing down and that second look.
This Good Friday we can bloody up all we want about what happened that day but it only best applies to us during the “rinse” cycle.
It can be called the “rinse cycle of sacrifices.”  Moms know what I’m talking about.  Life’s entry can be painful and likened to a “rinse cycle” – “just get this kid out of me!” says the distraught mother-to-be after 18 hours of labor.

Our family washing machine swirled and churned clothes clean, often moving itself off base as though it was alive until it was time for the “ringers.”  Aptly named, the ringer pulled the clothes through it until they fell into the first water basin.  Then the ringer was pulled over to rinse off the first rinsing.  The second water basin was the final cleaning until the clothes were ringed free of suds once and for all.  And then the clothes were placed in the dryer.
The sacrifice of Jesus was once and for all; a mother’s sacrifice can take up to 18 or more years.

“Lacerated flesh?”  Just look at that “boo-boo” scratch that has your little son screaming as he looks to you for salvation and redemption or at the very least some Mercurochrome and a kiss on the wound.  A band aid, a hug and a kind word assured your son that it was not cancer and would truly not grow into something bigger nor deform him for life.

The proverbial “crown of thrones” are the times when a mother says to her teenage daughter, “I think you could do better with boys. Do you really need to see that one boy again?” while the daughter yells back, “Why are you trying to wreck me life?”

“Nailed to the cross.”  This is an easy one to apply to our “rinse cycle” in life.  In early adult life, mother is blamed (or nailed) for everything from late homework assignments to facial acne to anything you’ve done but are not responsible for.  It is so simple and easy – it is always mother’s fault.  We will hold on to that for as many years as it takes until we slowly realize the responsibility resides within us and our total involvement in life’s involvement.
The sacrifices moms and dads make for their children is the sacrifice we honor this day, each in our own way.

“Wash, rinse, iron.”  Those are the motherly chores witnessed by our Savior, Jesus Christ.

I read a credible book about all of this and it said that crucifixions were so common each day, each week that Jesus’ would have gone unnoticed, just as the others did.  He would never have met the Roman governor Pilate and had that significant verbal exchange.  There was no Anthony Quinn nor Veronica and her cloth in spite of what we may think or wish.  It was just another day of needless deaths at the hands of Roman persecutors, not Jewish folks for whom we’ve blamed for centuries.

That’s remarkable to me in its un-remarkable quality.  We’ve made such an event of the last journey of Jesus that it’s lost its ordinariness.  “Just another Jew” crucified because of his blasphemy – which was not a difficult crime to commit in those days.  That it gains the crucifixion power for me – it was just another death in the midst of so many.  Today it is simply the “rinsing” cycle.  It’s what a mother days once a week, if not more.  Rinsing away whatever keeps us from the cleanliness of God.

What makes today memorable is tomorrow.  Tomorrow marks is its excellence and proves its worth.  Tomorrow is “ironing.”  Today, well, it is just another day of a needless death of another Jew who claimed to be what he was not.

Holy Saturday
“Wash, Rinse, Iron” is these three days – Thursday, Friday, Saturday.  We “wash” on Holy Thursday, “rinse” on Good Friday and on Holy Saturday we “iron.”
And tonight it is all about the smell.  It is the smells that fills the air and hopefully tired hearts.  Smell.  Often the forgotten scent but the one that is always working, even when we’re not aware of it.  There is nothing like it.  Crisp, even, and smooth – the smells last, at least for a while.
And if your method of creating good smells is God’s sun first then you’re all set for Christ’s ironing.  I’m telling you, it’s the smell.  It is the smell as your head hits the sun-dried cotton fabric and iron pressed that soothes yourself into night time slumber.
I’m telling you.  We think it is the big stuff of life that makes life big.  It’s not.  It is the small life-stuffs that makes the life that Christ won for us divine.  It is what this night is all about.
Jesus completes his Father’s plan and raises himself into a new, eternal life to become the Christ.  It is as though he was able to “iron out” all of our life’s difficulties and come out “smelling,” as the saying goes, “like a rose”.  You know we say “Jesus Christ” as though Christ is his last name.  It’s not, as we know.  But it does tell us that before this day he was just Jesus in all his budding glory.  But tonight he is Christ, the risen – washed, rinsed and ironed for us, for the salvation of the world.
Does that mean that life was easy or simple for him, his thinking that he is the Son of God and all that?  No.  It’s not.  It means that he was able to take apart seemingly complex situations and piece them back together in an orderly, faithful fashion.  Fractured, separate or divided lives are made whole again.  Jesus was able to assemble and then reassemble, reassemble once more and then reassemble yet again into what this human journey is all about.
So many times in life we get caught.  We get caught up in things and circumstances that seem to freeze us into either easy, absolute decisions or unable to know our left from our right hand.
Jesus took on love as his beginning and made it his end.  During the middle of his life, he just “ironed out” the differences.  That’s what makes his last name “Christ.”
_________________
You know I have to iron my shirts.  I don’t like doing it but it has to be done unless I pay a dry cleaner to do it for me and I’m too cheap.  So, Sunday afternoons I’ll Manhattan myself up and iron my newly washed and rinsed shirts and I begin to watch the wrinkles and creases disappear as the iron does its magic.  (Wrinkles and creases in a retirement home are not the most appropriate images but it’s true.)  And magic slowly burns itself into those wrinkly but now ironed shirts.  How often we think that it is not possible in real life when, indeed, it is.
All of the stuff that holds us back from being closer to each other (which means being close to God) can be eliminated with a warm iron (and don’t forget to add water).  How many frenzied or useless conversations, hurtful thoughts, selfish dwellings, poisonous harborings, sheltering nasty and mean feelings or holding onto brash judgements that need to “ironed,” to Christ-themselves out of us and into a spirituality that is healthy and life giving not only for ourselves but for those we encounter.

How long the Catholic Church and other religions have thrived by holding us down as sinful, unworthy, woeful people.  Sin and a perception of undeserving, I guess, keeps us filling the pews.  I would not call that a “healthy spirituality.”

Go ahead, try to add an adjective to your spirituality and see what happens?  Give your spiritual life an adjective and see how it measures up to the “Christ” we honor tonight.  Add the word “healthy,” for example and see how your prayer life may change and how your final days lived fully in this Easter hope, this newly ironed “Christ.”  A “healthy spirituality,” one that this enriching, life-giving and geared toward service to others in the name of the man whom we now called “Christ.”

Tonight is about “ironing” things out.  Our Christ ironed out the stuff of this world giving each of us a blueprint, a method by which to live.  It is one that is heated, filled with water and you can slowly watch the life’s wrinkles and creases erase and something new, fresh (an smells good) replace it.

What remains after this ironing?  That’s easy.  It is the sun-dried smell of God’s-dried cotton pillow cases, ironed – and a place for a weary head to rest after a day of giving glory and praise to God.

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Prayer of Salvation

Posted on April 7, 2014 by Rev. Joe Jagodensky, SDS.

Grant me life, compassionate Lord.
Hear me, merciful Lord.
Be charitable to me, forgiving Lord.
Save me, long-suffering Lord.
Protect me, defender Lord.
Be generous, all-giving Lord.
Free me, all powerful Lord.
Revive me, restoring Lord.
Raise me again, awe-inspiring Lord.
Enlighten me, Heavenly Lord.
Cure me, omnipotent Lord.
Grant pardon, inscrutable Lord.
Bestow gifts, bountiful Lord.
Adorn me with grace, generous Lord.
Let us be reconciled, healing Lord.
Be accepting, unvengeful Lord.
Wipe away my transgressions, blessed Lord…

so that on that Day of Misery, when I stare at the abyss on either side, I may also catch sight of your salvation, my hope and guardian, and on that terrifying journey your angel of peace may sweetly guide me. Endow me, Lord, on the day my breath is finished with a clean spirit raised in light among the joyful heavenly host, with gifts of your love overtaking me. May I arrive with the workers for justice. Grant to my wayward soul an unexpected kindness on that day of despair. Will you, I wonder:

Forget to be charitable, my expectation? Neglect to be compassionate, caring Lord? Regret your charity toward humankind, constant Lord? Retreat from your life-giving, everlasting Lord? Abandon the cheerful fruit of your mercy? Corrupt the gracious flower of your sweetness? Dishonor the grandeur of your generous bounty? Vary the glory of your white-haired exaltation? Waste the gifting splendor of your crown?

If bliss is for the merciful, then you, a kingdom unto yourself, filled with love; will you not grant me full salvation?

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Two Too Much

Posted on March 22, 2014 by Rev. Joe Jagodensky, SDS.

7313154-two-giraffe-in-romantic-feelings-for-each-otherLife happens to all of us.  One moment of happiness is savored and a moment of anxiety is handled the best that we can.  We call it life with its mountains and valleys.  “One day at a time” as the survivalists say.

What happens if both joy and anxiety occur the same day?  Where do your feelings land and what harbors you?

A friend of mine was diagnosed with breast cancer.  “O.k., early stage so all looks good.”  Pre-surgery prep, outpatient procedure with radiation scheduled just to make sure.  Anxiety sinks in but hope prevails.  “Ok, here’s the valley,” she might have said to herself.  “One day…”

The day her procedure arrives and her routine blood work arrives and she’s told that she’s pregnant.  (“Wait a minute! How can there be both a mountain and valley at the same time?  I can’t walk that far!”)  Along with her husband and doctor it is agreed upon to postpone the surgery but monitor the cancer growth and hope that surgery can occur after the second trimester with radiation after the birth.  If the cancer spreads faster than they suspect then surgery can occur only without the radiation.  “Ok.”  (Digestion of feelings need as much time as a big steak.)  “Just keep saying, ‘One day…'”

In talking to friends and colleagues she never references with “I.”  It is always a loving “We”- she and her husband.  “We’re thinking of this” and “We’ve discussed the options and we feel that…”  Perhaps the valley is raised or the mountain is lowered by living this together.

Talking to one friend about the new life growing inside her can quickly turn in her mind to the other growing thing inside her.  A cancer survivor tells her the story of her recovery only to trigger the new life that “is now the size of a blueberry.”  (Who thinks up those comparisons?)

What she needs now and for the next nine months is gifts.  Not the kind of gifts that you give a cancer survivor or a mother.  These are the inspired gifts of the Holy Spirit.  Wrapped up in our prayers and thoughts for her is strength to bear the cancer burden and the growing strength of the new life she carries.  The fortitude gift is the stiff-upper lip that wants to be a frown while a wide smile is also called for through her second child.  Wisdom is the easy gift because that’s the gift that is able to tell the difference when she may dwell too much on the valley when the mountain is also visible.  Fear of the Lord is a favorite of mine because that’s the faith perspective for which we all yearn.  It’s a perspective that keeps her grounded in her myriad of feelings but also anchors those feelings in something greater in guiding her through nine months that I suspect will never be matched again in her life.

It’s a double doze none of us envy but there it is.  “One day…”  Or, two feelings this day and then two more feelings tomorrow.

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The Wizard’s Curtain

Posted on March 22, 2014 by Rev. Joe Jagodensky, SDS.

wizardbehindcurtainThe mystic and mystery has finally arrived as the Catholic cardinals gather in that gloomy, cold chapel to produce one of their own to assume the wizard’s role.

It is the talk of the town for these days until a new pope is named and then suddenly these talkers return to different talk.  I have never heard so many silly questions of which I have no silly answer.  “How do they make white smoke?”  (Honest.)  “I just saw a TV special on the rebuilding of the chimney.”  “I heard the ballots are linked together on a string.”  “Why can’t a new pope be named ‘Peter’?’  “How do they know what name to choose?”  “I was told that cardinals change their handwriting to keep their vote private.”

So much commotion for a new someone that we will not listen to, read what he has to say or follow once he’s elected.  How does this happen?

Who said the Harry Potter series has ended!  The Catholic Church has more pomp with little impact and more circumstance, limited as it is, than any other organization in the world.  “Where do they sleep?” is another one.  “Do they stay inside there until one’s elected,” is another question as though I’ve taken a graduate course in Pope Election 101.  I smile, humor the questioner and just tell them that it really doesn’t matter.

We just love that curtain.  The movie, “Oz, the Great and Powerful” showed us how the original wizard came to be and many of those people are eating up news coverage about the Catholic’s new wizard.  I can tell you that it’s only just a curtain.

Move the curtain aside and you witness levers and gadgets that the wizard manipulates as though he was the head of the Catholic Church.  (Well, actually, he thinks he is.)  Pope doesn’t mean “leader” or “head,” it means “bridge.”

Mystic and mystery are both honored these days but sadly it is placed in the wrong container.  Take away the curtain and what do you have?  A group that votes for itself normally gets just a member of that group.  Liberals and progressives hold out for the “working of the Holy Spirit” type of guy but that only shows their agenda.  (What?  You’ve never been a part of a group that elects one of their own?)  Take away the smoke and mirrors and you have a self-appointed group gathering to elect one of their own to keep going what they started even it doesn’t work any longer.  Enron, anyone?

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Hold Or Held

Posted on March 22, 2014 by Rev. Joe Jagodensky, SDS.

239085Life is fragile and to live life fully are slogans we’ve all grown to embrace and hold to as important.  The fragility of life is that there is only one.  One of a kind, no duplicates.  (cue the snowflake!)

Beside our human life, this was reinforced through the things around us.  Everything was temporary and fleeting.  Our record albums got scratchy and then our cassettes got taped inside itself (a Bic pen could correct this), and then CD’s got too warm in the car and then the music became this sound (no longer a thing) that we can carry along with us.  And that’s only the music.

Apple and Amazon are working out plans to resell ebooks.  I paused.  I pondered.  I’m amused.  I will be able to sell to someone what I can neither hold (at least in a real way).  My non-thing had a value when I bought it but now I can sell it again (in its always pristine condition) and that person can then sell the non-object to another while there was really nothing real to sell in the first place.  “Virtually” no longer describes this new capitalistic twist.  They are even setting guidelines and limits for first time purchase and subsequent re-sellings.

My sister will often give me her books when she’s finished with them and I look for her scripples to read the good parts.  A penciled asterisk means to read that paragraph twice.  Underlined passages are there to tease me into reading further.  It’s a handy method.  Would my little imaginary, yellow Post-It-Notes in my ebook carry over to the next reader?

I find it difficult to comprehend how I can sell what is not really real.  My no-thing that I’ve enjoyed as a new invention now has a value beyond myself.

“In perfect condition” is no longer necessary when I sell my e-book on Craig’s List.  It is always in perfect condition because it’s not real.  I held it but cannot hold it.

Isn’t it important for us temporal beings to be around things that are also fleeting, aging and growing worn?  Where’s that 78 rpm record when you want it?

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Catholic Preaching Comments

Posted on March 22, 2014 by Rev. Joe Jagodensky, SDS.

Preaching

“Wow, I don’t need to come for two weeks.  He just gave me three sermons today!”

“Do I care that he vacationed in Cyprus?”

“Why is he trying to prove to me that he’s smarter than me?  I know some Latin too.”

“I read the same thing in Reader’s Digest.  I think it’s supposed to based on the Bible!”

“If you’re going to preach in this country, then learn the language and speak slower.”

“I’m glad he likes his family but, really, give me a break.”

“He’s really not married?  What a waste.”

“He read it, word for word.  Why not just email us all.”

“He thinks that this is important…because?!”

“Does he live on the same planet as I do?”

“In twenty minutes I can make a complete meal for four.  Should I teach him how?”

“I lost him after the first five bible quotes.”

“Why would he just repeat the Gospel that I just heard?  Does he think I’m that stupid!”

“I often wondered how many lights were in this Church.  Do we need them all on now?”

“O.k. honey.  One tug when he’s finished.  Two tugs to stand for the Creed.”

“Didn’t he say the same thing three years ago?  I wish my life was that easy.”

“Nothing heretical this week, maybe next time we can get him.”

“He looks good in a dress.  I wonder if he works out.”

“He really does think he’s funny.”

“He’s never met my family!”

And as you leave church you’ll say “Great sermon Father.”  But I’ll know that you were the one counting the lights.

 

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