American or Catholic – A difficult choice?

“All I want to know,” the student asked coyly, “is how far I can go with a passed-out drunk girl before I break the law.”

                                              

I gritted my teeth and tried not to show my disgust, knowing that at least a couple of students would react appropriately and put this guy in his place. The journalism class had taken this unexpected turn. It began as a discussion about media coverage of a famous athlete accused of – but not charged with – sexual assault. But then a young woman mentioned an incident involving a party, two frat boys, and a drunk freshman co-ed. The floodgates exploded.

For the next half hour, the young ladies gave example after example of unrelenting, vulgar harassment that made them feel like prey. The guys countered with claims of mixed messages, “girls asking for it” simply by going to parties and, finally, wanting to know how they, too, could escape rape charges. How in the world did our society come to this?

As a journalism professor, I have always stressed ethics in my classes – the critical differences between objectivity and overt bias, fact and opinion, right and wrong. And also the difference between what’s legal and what’s moral. My usual example is my own divorce and remarriage – completely legal and not uncommon in civic life but, without my annulment, considered immoral by my Church.

Our nation, which guarantees the free practice of any
religion.was founded on basic Judeo-Christian values
that are increasingly challenged by our culture.  

Our culture’s sense of right and wrong has changed drastically. Most of us could list all sorts of examples. Unfortunately, the worst of the worst gets the most attention. Many of us don’t realize that, slowly and over time, a lot of secular culture has crept into our lives – culture that is completely at odds with the tenets and teachings of our Church.

One example is a passionate lecture I got a few years ago from a friend and fellow parishioner. He was worked up about health care.

“I work hard for what I have,” he insisted. “I take care of my own health insurance. Explain to me why I should have to contribute to anyone else’s health care. It’s my money. I earned it. Let them work for theirs, too.”

Many Americans would agree. Our culture honors hard work, self-reliance, individualism, initiative, and responsibility. Those traits made our country great. It’s our heritage and we are proud of it.

My friend, though, picked an awkward time and place for his lecture. It was right after Mass, by the foot of the altar, after the Gospel reading of the Good Samaritan. But it was the homily that lit my friend’s fuse. The homily included a mention that the Church believes access to health care a basic, universal right.

It is becoming increasingly difficult to accept our
"secular morality" while at the same time being
faithful to the teachings of the Church.

Health care is just one issue that exposes the schism between American values and Catholic values. The fact that the US Conference of Bishops had to sue the federal government for abortion and contraception exemptions is just one example of the difference between what most Americans accept and what our Church teaches us to reject.  

Our understanding of what is right and what is wrong in America is moving farther and farther away from our Catholic beliefs. And, unfortunately, it seems more and more Catholics are lining up with the changing values of our society. 

To be completely transparent, I try to be more forgiving than legalistic. I embrace Amoris Laetitia, Pope Francis’ apostolic exhortation that promotes understanding and pastoral responses to the difficult, complicated and challenging situations many families face. Yet we must acknowledge that issues such as immigration, criminal justice, and health care are most often judged by economic standards, not traditional Judeo-Christian teaching. In other words, Americans make decisions based on what’s best for the bottom line. And when we do that, we reject the teachings of our faith.

Most of us would know what to do with a passed-out drunk girl – take care of her, get help, make sure she’s safe. That’s easy. Answers to other social questions aren’t nearly as easy. Then again, no one – not even Jesus (Mt 7:13-14) – ever said being a follower would be easy.

Touched by “God’s Paw”

I remember the question as though it were yesterday, even though it was nearly 30 years ago. My daughter Kris, then about 7 years old, wanted to know why I was more sad about the death of our pet parakeet than I was about a relative who had recently died. The answer, I told her, was simple – I had never been close to the relative and hadn’t seen him in ages, while I had lived with the bird for 10 years.

Nucky was so laid back, he didn't mind a
lipstick smudge from one of Claudia's
smooches.

I remembered Kris’ question as Helen, her daughter Claudia and I said goodbye to our beloved cat Nucky. Nucky died in Helen’s arms last week, shortly after being hit by a car. There were lots of tears that night. That grey cat was so very affectionate, his loss left us with a hole in our home and an ache in our hearts.

Still, Nucky was just a cat, not a person. As Kris asked me so many years ago, I now asked myself – Why did the death of an animal affect me more than many of the people I’ve lost? The answer is more than proximity, and God’s fingerprints are all over it.  

Nucky, like many pets, cared chiefly about two things – food and love. Pets live to eat, to be loved, and to give love. Not much more. If you are a pet owner, you are probably smiling right now, maybe even nodding because, no matter how bad the day has been – or how bad you have been during the day – your pet still loves you. Unconditionally. Just like God. So maybe, just maybe, God uses these creatures to express his unconditional love for us.

It wasn't unusual for Lexie to join Nucky and me on the
couch  in the evenings, especially when Helen would snap
a surreptitious photo.

On the night before he died, Nucky did something out of character. For years, he would curl up in my lap each evening as I sat on the couch, and then fall asleep on my chest every night as I went to bed. Two habits repeated hundreds of times. That last night, though, just before I dozed off, Nucky did something he had never done before. He reached out and gently touched my face with his paw. His touch startled me fully awake and left me wondering why.

In retrospect, the question has changed. Now I wonder what Nucky was trying to tell me. Actually, because I don’t believe in coincidences, I’m wondering what God was trying to tell me. Does that sound strange? Well, Jesus used animals – birds of the air (Mt 6:26) – to illustrate God’s love for us. And didn’t he call us blessed when our eyes see and our ears hear (Mk 8:18, Mt 13:16)?

Yes, the God of the Universe is this incomprehensibly powerful, magnificent and distant being. But he is also an intimate father who is always within us and beside us, expressing his love for us through his spectacular sunsets, the sweet bouquet of his flowers, the joyful songs of his birds. And even the touch of unconditional love from our pets. We just need to pay attention. To see and to hear.

But it’s not natural for us to see and hear on that level. We have to fight through our human nature. (Read “original sin.”) We can’t really love unconditionally. Our egos – rooted in our primal sense of self-preservation – get in the way. We have expectations of others, especially those we love the most. Often, our loved ones don’t even realize we have those expectations of them. That’s when relationships get especially chafed.  

But we are also children of God, and the desire to love others unconditionally is planted in our spiritual DNA. We just have to recognize it. So the next time we see a sunset, enjoy a flower, hear a bird’s song – or are nuzzled by a pet – maybe we’ll be reminded to see beyond our own limitations to show our love to others as best we can.

Just as Bad as Everyone Else

As I looked at the large gathering, many of them familiar faces, the poignant lyrics of Her Town Too – James Taylor’s song about the social fallout of divorce – kept cycling through my mind.

                                                                                            

She gets the house and the garden, he gets the boys in the band.
Some of them his friends, some of them her friends.
Some of them understand.

So what happens when those bifurcated friends find themselves under the same roof a dozen years later? In a church. At a funeral.

Jason Roy was 57 years old, a former salesperson, a percussionist, a bit of an eccentric, and a deacon at my parish of St. Joseph’s who was devoted to his prison ministry. Last Friday, December 23, he stayed in the hospital all day for the birth of his first grandchild, relishing the moments that he could finally hold tiny, newborn Olivia. The next morning, Christmas Eve, Jason never woke up.

I met Jason 22 years ago during a weekend program at St. Joe’s titled Christ Renews His Parish (CRHP), which we pronounced “Chirp.” CRHP weekends are very personal, emotional, and intense between the two dozen or so participants. The experience builds faith and often cements lifelong bonds of friendship between the participants.

Until something changes. And that’s why the James Taylor song was stuck in my head. I had been alienated from many of my “CRHP brothers” for 12 years, ever since I was blindsided by the divorce. She got the house, the garden, the boys in the band, and nearly all of the friends. Only a few bothered to understand.

The hurt ran deep; I often felt abandoned by these men with whom I had been so close. Looking at things from their point of view, it was easy to understand and, as such, very easy to forgive them – from afar. The bonds had already been broken and relationships would never be the same.

Funerals have a way of bringing perspective
to our lives, our relationships, and our mortality.

The funeral was the first time I had been in the same place with so many of them. Over the years, a couple had remained friendly, a couple were cordial, others simply polite. The funeral was no different. A couple ignored me. Not unexpectedly, one looked straight through me as though I didn’t exist.  

During one of the many glowing funeral reflections, I learned Jason and I had one important thing in common – we both believe every experience holds meaning from which we can learn and grow. As I looked at this widely diverse crowd of hundreds of people – many of my former CRHP brothers scattered among them – I tried to make some sense of it all. And then it all fell into place.

Many people in this congregation argue with their spouses. Some cheat on their taxes. Others lie, pass judgment, are prejudiced, and call people hurtful names. Most, if not all, break the speed limit. Some eat too much, some are alcoholics, and some almost assuredly have committed other, more serious acts. And most of the people at Deacon Jason Roy’s funeral Mass were Catholic.

I’m often frustrated by people who say the walls would cave in if they ever showed up for Mass. They don’t – or won’t – acknowledge what I could easily see in all of the people mourning Jason. Catholics – all Christians – are just as vulnerable to human nature as everyone else. We’re all human. We all make mistakes. We can all be dishonest, miserable, and hurtful as the next person.

And that’s WHY we go to Mass. If we were perfect, then Jesus’ sacrificial death was meaningless – we wouldn’t need Jesus or his redemption. But we do because, as humans, we’re just as fallible as everyone else. Pope Francis reminds us of that, writing that the Eucharist “is not a prize for the perfect but a powerful medicine and nourishment for the weak.”

We’re Catholic because we’re weak. Because we’re human. Because we can’t do it ourselves. And being Catholic gives us the opportunity to be forgiven and to try again (and again and again and again) with the strength of that “powerful medicine.”

Funerals tend to remind us humans that we are all mortal. They smooth our rough edges and soften our hard hearts. They can brush away ill feelings and even lead to unexpected olive branches. Maybe that’s why, at the end of Mass, for the first time since changing the locks, my ex-wife approached me, said hello and wished me well. Possibly the result of that powerful medicine. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the influence of a former CHRP brother who’s now in a much better position to help us build bridges.