Inconvenient Prayer

   The obligation to pray can at times be a pesky thorn. Especially if we have other, more appealing whatnots luring our passions (will God, Mary, and Church ever rank as number one in my life...I feel like such a weasel, not loving them the way that they deserve, only partially giving them me). Yet, if we shirk these responsibilities and such devolves into a habit of self over God or others...well, then that would be a travesty.
   Returning from dinner this evening, thirty-five minutes were available to pray the Liturgy of the Hours and the Chaplet of Divine Mercy before my weekly television show aired on the Public Broadcast Station. There was time to do one devotion with the reverence necessary, but two would be rushing it and...well, what would "I" get out of it. Ah, but then a quick lump on the head was received, as if the Holy Spirit was saying: "These prayers are not for you - no, the liturgical prayer is for the Church and the chaplet is for those experiencing Purgatory!" Fair enough. Grumbling, I reluctantly committed to pray both and anticipated nothing more than emptiness and nausea. Again, the Holy Spirit repeated that these devotions were not for me.
   At the outset, the Liturgy of the Hours had been difficult to get started; there was a gaggle of disruption and distraction outside my door. But, reflecting on how obnoxious onlookers must have been when Jesus prayed or how there are scores of people who do not have the ability to pray, to engage in conversation with our Lord, who are prevented from worshiping, or whatever, all of the hoopla outside my room dissipated and I was able to proceed in silence. Hmph, it's funny how fastidiously God will intervene!
   The Chaplet of Divine Mercy was riddled with exclamation points of our Lord's dabbling. Praying the Apostle's Creed at the beginning sequence of this devotion, when reciting the words, "Creator of heaven and earth," a gust of wind caused me to look out my window. At that moment, a robin hopped into view a mere two or three feet away (my first spotting this spring) and, if I didn't know better, was staring at me. Taken aback, I paused. The bird simply looked at me. When I resumed the prayer and settled into the rhythm she flew away. Being that this is Holy Saturday (the day after Good Friday, for those of you who hadn't connected the dots), the folklore of the robin is poignant. Only able to recall fragments, a sparrow had landed on our Lord's shoulder while he hung on the Cross, that moment as he transitioned from the earthly to the heavenly. Blood had touched the robin. Somehow, as a reward and to symbolize that day, to not look plain, our Lord imbued robins with red breasts....
   Continuing to thumb the beads while praying (a rosary is used for this chaplet), I periodically looked out my window. The evening sky was overcast and the clouds were heavy, looking ready to burst with snow. The bars on my window and the surrounding fences offered a stark impression of purgatory. To the side, my vignette revealed a heavy duty trash receptical...perhaps, a metaphor for hell. Ah, and a gate does exist at the crest of the hill. Soon, lights would flood the same outdoor area with rays not quite ethereal, but a comparison for this story. As the wind gusted, leaves danced around like choreographed swirls, not unlike happy souls transitioning from purgatory to heaven, the Church Suffering becoming the Church Triumphant!
   Though I had resigned myself to plod through devotions which would prove dry and unfulfilling, I was rewarded with rich graces. Thank you, Jesus.
   On a side note, the television program which caused all of this angst and nearly resulted in me dumping the evening devotions was...uh, Fr. Brown! Ha, I did indeed catch Fr. Brown.
Marana tha

Applause for Mary

   Our small Catholic community was gathered and we were anxiously awaiting the arrival of Father Lou. Knowing that it is not uncommon for our guests and volunteers to be delayed as they attempt to enter the facility (prison staff are tasked with many responsibilities, some of which are unforseen, requiring their immediate attention), we waited for a little while after their scheduled arrival.
   As the fellas were becoming antsy, like a bunch of rambunctious male adolescents, an attempt was made with staff to ascertain the whereabouts of our priest - was patiently awaiting entrance or had he never arrived. As it turned out, there was no clear answer. Admittedly, this proved unsettling.
   Returning to our ragtag mini-mob of Jesus freaks, it had been suggested that while we wait, in the interim, we should consider praying the Stations of the Cross or the Rosary or the Chaplet of Divine Mercy. Something spiritually stirring! It would be wonderful to share with you that there was much excitement and eagerness to offer any one of these devotions, but the response was minimal, at best. Lukewarm (a pun coming next). Fittingly, as the Gospel of Luke contains the framework for the "Hail Mary" prayer (Luke 1:28b, 42b, 43b, 38), a couple of fellas liked the idea of praying the Rosary. The others were still lukewarm, but non-hostile to corporate prayer.
   As we seldom pray devotions as a community - a very frustrating aspect of our contingent - it took a humiliating moment to find our bearings. Jesus was no doubt holding shaking his head in embarrassment! Once we found our groove, it was nice to recognize that everybody participated and prayed with reverence. The responses were audible and firm, not mumbled, grumbled, or abstained from. There was purpose in the Sorrowful Mysteries being prayed. A sense of euphoria and togetherness, a family was discernable. We were a whole, not a fracture.
   When finished, I held up my rosary and said "thank you" to the fellas - much like Sir William Wallace in Mel Gibson's character in the iconic movie "Braveheart," where he thrusts up a fist and confidently screams the mantra type war cry - "Freedom!" - to his warriors.      Okay, my rosary thrust did not carry the same oomph amongst my Bible thumping compatriots, but it was just as genuine. I was proud that all participated.
    As I walked out the door to once again check on the arrival or cancellation of our guest, somebody started to clap and then abruptly stopped, as though he sensed improper etiquette. Turning with a smile to see who had committed such a heretic act (hyperbole), my eyes were treated to see a new face who was presently shrinking in his seat. I began laughing aloud and then championed: "Yeah, let's give Mary a big round of applause!" All joined in with similar elation...we were once again children.
   Exiting on that note to find out the disposition of our volunteer, I encountered him walking down the hallway towards us. Was that timing, or what!
Marana tha

Unexpected Whispers

   While attending an impromptu Holy Communion service, there was a certain unusualness about it. Typically, our makeshift chapel is a space used as a classroom. But, on this occasion, we were shoehorned into a tiny area where crafts are made.
   So last minute was this gathering that none of us were anticipating Jesus to be brought to us in the Eucharist. How can this be? Well, for all intents and purposes we had been scheduled for the Rite of Reconciliation (Confession). Father Lou, a return retired priest who serves this community of thirty souls when he can shoehorn us into his schedule. Well, he was feeling under the weather and could not make it. In Father Lou's stead, a volunteer arrived with Jesus so that we would not be left in limbo. (For those if you wonder how we could take part in the Eucharist if we had not been to Confession - there is a special dispensation for those whom it is impossible to receive the Rite of Reconciliation.)
   Unprepared, we neither had Holy Water, missals for those in attendance (save the one copy which the volunteer brought), altar cloth, or crucifix. There was a certain throwback to the early Church when missals and Bibles and general literacy did not exist!
   As we proceeded with the Holy Communion service, there was a place where we simply stopped and sat in silence. This deviation was not planned, such simply happened organically. As time elapsed, there was a level of silence, non noise, which we seldom, if ever, experience in the prison environment. Off in the corner was a sink used by those who craft. The silence was so deafening that we could all hear the drip, drip, drip of a leaky faucet. Being that this is Holy Week and in the middle of Holy Communion, one could not help but smile at the correlation and symbolism - the woman who washed our Lord's feet with her tears, Jesus crying out in the Garden of Gethsemane, the apostles washing the feet of the disciples, the tears which flowed from our holy Mother, the cries of the repentant thief on the corresponding cross (Saint Dismas, the patron of prisoners), the water which gushed forth when our Lord's side was pierced by a solders lance....
Marana tha

Awkward Outreach

   In recent weeks a homosexual was moved into the Faith Dorm. His cell was across the hall from mine and I was indifferent - of all the things which I have witnessed over the years, this was no big deal. As the intervening days progressed, it became clear that he was being avoided like the plague. A dorm replete with Christians was being uninviting. Unfriendly. I, too, was guilty of avoiding him!
    On two occasions I made a pathetic attempt to say "good morning.". Keep in mind, this salutation, though not hollow, was barely audible as I rushed by. Fickle person that I am, I did not want to be seen talking to him; yep, I still get caught up in what onlookers perceive. To say the least, I felt like a schmuck. Perhaps more troublesome than being cowardly, I did not know how to talk to him....
   After some uncomfortable time had elapsed and I had grown to no longer see this individual (he was physically present, but I had blocked him out), a non Christian approached me with an account that I could no longer sweep under the rug of oblivion: This openly gay fella was feeling the prompt of making life changes. On one particular Sunday afternoon he felt drawn to go to church. Having heard accounts from several people, the congregation did not welcome him. No greetings. No handshakes (of course not, cooties). Worst of all, and most degrading, nobody would sit near him. The atheist who approached me had confided that this person was broken and distraught, questioning his value and if it was even possible to be spiritual. My heart ached for him.
   Not giving a damn what passersby thought, I grabbed a chair and went to his door and knocked. Not having many visitors, it is suspected that he was taken aback by seeing me. It didn't help that I appeared less than congenial - I was pissed by how he was treated by that church, by the Faith Dorm, by me. Christians.... The little fella hesitantly opened his door and was bare chested. This made me feel a little uncomfortable. So, without much gentleness in my voice, I said: "Put a shirt on, grab your chair, and sit down, we have to talk!" Looking back, I should have smiled, introduced myself, and expressed why I was there. Oops.
   Sitting in the hallway, I shared how Christianity is not an easy walk. How as a felon it is more arduous. And, factoring his sexual orientation, well, such could only make his journey more didfficult. I also came clean with not knowing how to talk to him. For the most part, this was a one sided conversation. That is, until I invited him to pray. We did.
   Afterwards, I approached several Christians and expressed the need to embrace this troubled soul, a person contemplating life changes. Some agreed; others gave me the ubiquitous stink eye. In the next couple of days I had repeatedly attempted to reconnect with this person, but from one thing or another was prevented from doing so. It was unclear if Satan was blocking me from encouraging another conversion to Jesus? Or, was it God intervening to protect me (this will make sense in a moment)?
   Please, permit me to digress for a moment. The atheist had come to me the day after I met with his gay acquaintance. And, this is not said to bring accolades to myself, but the time I had spent with this troubled soul had really lifted his spirits and gave home the gumption to continue to move forward. Hallelujah. The Holy Spirit works in mysterious ways.
   Two days later this troubled soul was beaten up by his roommate (also a homosexual). Complete speculation on my part, but what if he was beaten because he is trying to change his life? A modern day persecution.... If this is indeed the case, he was willing to take a bunch of lumps whereas the rest of us were apprehensive of incurring a little gossip!
   May our Lord have mercy on this gentle person.
Marana tha

Black and White

   "[G]uard what has been entrusted to you...[a]void contradictions" (1 Timothy 6:20 RSVCE). "[T]he Lord's servant must not be quarrelsome but kindly" (2 Timothy 2:24). * * *
   Living out my Catholic faith can be, at times, difficult. But, such has also been an exercise in humility and meekness. When first opening myself to the presence of Christ, I was extremely timid and avoided all forms of debate. Similarly, there was a strong tendency to steer away from discussing anything in the realms of faith and religion because I had not developed any reasoned opinions. Plus, the bickering and division witnessed in others was not appealing: "The blow of a whip raises a welt, but a blow of the tongue crushes the bones" (Sirach 28:17). Today, however, firm positions have been adopted and developed. Even so, I tend to avoid debates...that is, unless the atmosphere is ripe to gently sprinkle seeds or bear fruit. Whether planting or harvesting, caution must be exercised to ensure that pride or ego or anger have not emerged as my motivating forces (Psalms 39:1-3); the ultimate inquiry being: Will this, that, the other glorify God? There are many opportunities to evangelize in this community; but, sometimes more can be accomplished if silence is maintained ("there are times when good words are to be left unsaid out of esteem for silence" Rule of Saint Benedict 6.2).
   Of the Christian classes which I have been blessed to receive admission over the past several years, all have been non-Catholic in theological and philosophical perspectives (save but a few correspondence courses). This notwithstanding, a tremendous volume of insight has been gleaned. Also, a greater understanding and love of our separated brothers and sisters has manifested.
   While attending an elective philosophy class recently, the facilitator made the following comment: "Holy Scripture is black and white, there are no shades of gray." Hmph, my Bible has red, too! (Yeah, that last comment was clearly a tad juvenile on my part...bad Karl!) The facilitator continued: "No dot or iota can be altered or added or removed." Okay, I can dig it! But a short time into the lecture he read the following swath from our Lord's discourse on the Living Bread: "I am the living bread which came down from heaven...he who eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life" (John 6:51-54).
   Admittedly, those are pretty difficult words which Jesus spoke. If you read this brief text from the pages of your Bible, it will be noticed that these phrases are repeated several times with the same emphasis. Yet, our facilitator dismissed such as hyperbole: "Surely, we are not to believe that Jesus was referring to his actual flesh and blood, the text is only meant to be understood in the spiritual context, symbolic."
   These passe comments were met with bobbing heads of acceptance from the class. For those who know me, I have a tremendous reverence for Christ in his Eucharistic presence...oh, goodness, is such ever intense. As a result, I was conflicted with what to do. For lack of a more genteel expression, because this was a Protestant class in which I had been invited, seldom would I voice a Catholic perspective. Yet, this time there had been a bugger clawing at me: If I failed to engage, would those who were present assume my ascent? Plus, there exists the weight of being charged to promote the truth (2 Timothy 1:14, 2:15; James 5:19-29), even in the face of adversity (Matthew 5:10-11; John 15:20; 2 Timothy 3:12; Galatians 4:16). Aargh! Poked and prodded if not by the Holy Spirit then by the spirit of a pope past, I felt like Moses when God asked him to address Israel: "'Oh, my Lord, I am not eloquent...I am slow of speech and of tongue'" (Exodus 4:10).
Waiting for a moment when there would be limited disturbance to the lecture, I put my plow to the field and kicked the mule. With respect and gentleness, permission was given to the facilitator to stop my address if at anytime he felt uncomfortable (not as though he needed license, it was his class).
   Sweaty palms and a steeled voice, I began trampling weeds and cultivating the seedbed. At the outset, it was conceded that God's word is indeed "black and white" with no room to add or remove (see Matthew 5:18; Luke 16:17; also Mark 13:31). But, this was where concessions ended. Referring to the Greek definitions of "eat" and "drink" in the context of the disputed text, such wholly supports the Catholic position of the Real Presence in the Eucharist. What becomes glaringly evident, other variations of the same words are available in Greek which endorse a symbolic application, but such were not employed by Christ.
   To further bolster the veracity of the Catholic interpretation is a contention between Jesus and many of his followers who, like my class, complained: "This is a hard saying; who can listen to it" (John 6:60-61). A few verses later, our Lord accuses these discouraged souls of lacking faith (6:64a). Soon after, "many of his disciples drew back and no longer went about with him" (6:66). Recognizing beforehand that his words would be troublesome (6:64b), our Lord could have changed his intent or application, but he chose not to. Moreover, when seeing many of his followers flock away, Jesus could have called them all back and expressed that they had misunderstood; but, he didn't. Actually, they understood quite well.
   Alas, "[w]hoever, therefore, eats the bread or drinks the cup in an unworthy manner will be guilty of profaning the body and blood of the Lord" (1 Corinthians 11:17). Whoa, there is a wallop of heavy evidence which weighs in favor of something much more than a mere symbol. Even more stern are the following words: "For anyone who eats and drinks without discerning the body eats and drinks judgment upon himself...[t]hat is why many of you are weak and ill" (11:29-30). Ouch! It's pretty difficult to be much clearer.
   The counter was complete. Being that this was an elective class consisting of mature Christians studying philosophy, there was little fear of discouraging one's spiritual journey. Instead, there was anxiety over any negative fallout being directed towards me. None. Nadda. Nothing. There was no further discussion or grunting or anything, we simply moved on with the lecture. In a peculiar way, this befuddled me...I wanted a little push back, some passion about their convictions...did they hear a word of what I drew from scripture...I was mounted on my mule and ready to charge, ahem, or gallop away (uh, aimlessly saunter).
* * *
   Please, do not think that this was a win in the sense that "Karl and his mule broadcast Catholic seeds all throughout the fields of Kingdom Come." Though, indeed a victory, said triumph was not how one would generally perceive.
   Thanks to the programs which I have been invited to participate, I now possess confidence where such was absent. Also, the past several years in the Prison Fellowship Faith Dorm have provided an atmosphere where differing faiths and traditions and beliefs can be shared constructively. Yes, there have been struggles and persecutions suffered, but viewed appropriately we have all been able to learn how to navigate such. The calmness with which the above exchange unfolded exemplifies the growth of all present. I am greatly indebted to the facilitators and community for providing a climate which is conducive to germination. If not for these blessings and tribulations, I would still be a fledgling Christian (well, more so than currently). Thank you.
   Marana tha

I Offer You

   Within a devotional prayer titled the Chaplet of Divine Mercy there is a segment in which one will encounter the following proclamation: "Eternal Father, I offer you the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity, of your dearly beloved Son, our Lord, Jesus Christ, in atonement for our sins and those of the whole world." This expression can be quite humbling; but also difficult, especially for the unprepared.
   Attending a Holy Communion service recently, the extraordinary minister called an audible (an unsuspected change of direction) during our worship. He suggested that we collectively spend some time in silence.
   When he had led us down this path on a previous occasion, Jesus was still on the altar and we were blessed with an opportunity for Eucharistic adoration. An awesome experience. However, this audible was announced after our Lord had been consumed. Hmph.
   It must be conceded, I was a little buggered that our extraordinary minister waited until this juncture to make such an announcement. Could he not have promulgated these intentions prior to Jesus being consumed? Ah, perhaps he was just following the promptings of the Holy Spirit! Or, like me, he was wrestling with (ignoring) the Holy Spirit like I do and had at that late moment responded!
   As I sat there and stewed (pouted) like an uncouth Neanderthal, I began reflecting on those words cited earlier from the Chaplet. Jesus, in his entirety, Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity, was inside me at that moment. Just minutes before I had ingested him.
   Also, recalling the reflections shared after one of the liturgical readings of the service (Acts 2:42-47), I pondered how we are counseled to die to self, that each time we approach the altar we are to have the disposition and intention of offering ourselves fully to God. How much more complete could my sacrifice be: Here I am God, your Son, his fullness within me, I offer myself in conjunction with him, to do with me what you will....
   Sobering. Humbling. Scary. All of my thoughts and emotions zigzagged and collided in a variety of variables. The implications of the Chaplet and our response to our Lord took on new dimensions. Whoa!
   Admittedly, I feel a bit silly about my earlier grievances of not being able to enjoy Eucharist adoration during the worship service. Instead, I was able to set self desires aside and offer myself more undividedly to God (still have a ways to go).
   When will I learn to simply trust! Silly....
Marana tha

Forgiveness

   In the prayer which Jesus taught to the apostles, there is a line which has caused havoc in my life: "[F]orgive us our trespasses [a]s we forgive those who trespass against us" (Matthew 6:12 RSVCE 2d). This particular proposition rang a bell while I was still wrestling with whether belief in God was objectively true or a bunch of subjective hocus pocus.         Chewing on this passage, I had latched onto "as," a seemingly innocuous pronoun. To this day, the reverberations of this quantifier continue to resonate. Hence, the "havoc" referred to moments earlier.
   The ding-donging of this spiritual gong brought with it a recognition that a response in the form of duty or performance was fundamental, a gate keeping mechanism. Such a threshold obligation ultimately gave credence to the whole Jesus thing. This amounted to another piece of evidence which added to the reasonableness of Christianity. Coincidentally, the soundness of this theology impacted my everyday life before having entered the Church!
   It's no secret that I have always struggled with forgiving myself for the ugliness which landed me in prison (such will not be rehashed in this essay, read my earlier writings). Several years ago a milestone had been reached in which the strength and wherewithal to forgive myself had been a result - mind you, this is an on going process, never static or complete.              Unequivocally, some days are more difficult than others (again, detailed accounts are written elsewhere).
All of the aforementioned has been presented as a refresher and segue into God's forgiveness of me.
Ever since I became a Jesus freak, people who are aware of my difficulties in forgiving self have inquired as to whether I know that our Lord has forgiven me. Well, in response, yes and no. Though, the "no" has always been kept to myself. Intellectually, on paper, if you will, it was recognized that God had forgiven me. However, I didn't know this grace in my soul.
   You may not understand this, but it has never mattered to me whether forgiveness was attained from our Lord! I feel so horrible about the past...whatever happens to me will be just. So you may ask, "Why bother becoming a rootin' tootin' Christian?" Because I love Jesus. If I can draw souls to him, I will have made a difference. In the off chance that somebody can be prevented from making the same errors in judgment that I did, wow. By bringing people to Christ, perhaps there will be one less victim of crime. If God embraces them...awesome, awesome, awesome.
   Surely, with the relationship I have grown to enjoy with Jesus and his Mother, not to mention my religious education and prayer life, one would not dare suspect that I held such reservations about God's forgiveness. Perhaps I am an anomaly! Could be that I am slow to see: "How many times I yearned to gather you, as a hen gathers her young under her wings, but you were unwilling" (Matthew 23:37, translation unknown).
   On the morning of the Feast of Saint Thomas the Apostle (also known as, Doubting Thomas, see Luke 20:19-29), with no noticeable sequitur, it became clear in my soul, in my heart, in my very essence, that God has indeed forgiven me. An "aha" moment of the most savory variety.
   Using deductive reasoning: If I was unforgivable, the Holy Spirit would not have allocated so many resources to rescue me. He would not have helped me understand his teachings and infused me with the confidence to share the same with others. And, he would not have showered me with blessings and the capacity to recognize such. If I was forever damned, these riches would have been invested elsewhere.
   On a side note: Several hours after arriving at these conclusions, two religious (nuns) came to visit for the afternoon. One being my spiritual director; the other, her sidekick, was a first meeting. Coincidence? I think not.
   And, on yet another note, the shining beacon to close this celebration of forgiveness consisted of fireworks peeking over the distant trees. No kidding, fireworks. Neat! Memorable.
   Yahoo, God has indeed forgiven me! And, I now possess a knowledge of this forgiveness. How incredibly freeing. If only I could have shared such with my dad....
   Marana tha