Category Archives: Inspiration

Morning Thoughts: Home Sick

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I wonder. Did God ever catch a cold?

Did Mary look at Him while He slept, watching carefully His chest rise and fall?

Did Joseph pace around their small home, looking upward, his right hand touching his brow?

I wonder. Did they wince in sync when Jesus coughed from the bottom of His soul?

Was there a day, a single hour, from the moment Jesus was conceived that Joseph and Mary weren’t concerned?

Concerning all this there’s not much to wonder.

Jesus is human.

Of course He experienced “cold” in all its forms.

Of course Joseph and Mary felt they’d rather die than see their child in pain.

And Jesus is divine.

Of course He was homesick.

Of course He longed to return.

Between Mary’s womb and heaven the desert is awfully dry.

He climbed up high, seeking out mountain views.

He returned to the sea, seeking out salt air.

He stopped to hang out with the little ones, seeking out angels.

Jesus is just like you and me.

Only He allows Himself to be loved.

And that led Him to love to the utter extreme.

All flowed from and toward a family reunion.

His pain, His grief, His hope, His love were perfectly ordered.

Even when He coughed or sneezed or tossed and turned, Jesus did so while in the company of a promise.

And He’s extremely contagious.

Joseph and Mary became homesick too.

There’s only one place they could want to be.

With their only child.

Clinging to Him, to their God with all their might.


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—Howard Hain

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Friday Thoughts: The Yet Empty Stable

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There’s a little stable not too far from here.

It sits in a church that has seen better days.

The parish is poor and the people seem to disappear.

But a few persistent peasants wont stay away.

I love it there.

The priest is wonderfully uncertain.

He is afraid of God.

He instinctively bows his head at the mention of the name.

He knows how little he is in front of the great star.

I imagine he was involved in setting the stable.

It is a good size, on the relative little-stable scale.

It is surrounded by ever-green branches.

Probably snipped from the few Douglas Firs placed around the altar and yet to be trimmed.

The stable itself is composed of wood.

A little wooden railing crosses half the front.

A single string of clear lights threads through the branches laid upon the miniature roof.

They are yet to be lit.

I love it there.

I kneel before the empty scene.

For as of yet, not a creature or prop is present.

Not an ox or a goat, not a piece of hay or plank of fencing.

Not even a feeding trough that is to be turned into a crib.

No visible sign of Joseph and Mary, nor a distant “hee-haw” of a very tired donkey.

I wonder if I could get involved.

Perhaps I could slip into the scene.

There’s a darkened corner on the lower left.

In the back, against the wall.

I could hide myself within the stable.

Before anyone else arrives.

I don’t think they would mind.

I’d only be there to adore.

To pay homage to the new born king.

I might even help keep the animals in line.

Yes, a stagehand, that’s what I can be!

I know there’s no curtain to pull.

That’s to be torn in a much later scene.

But to watch the Incarnation unfold from within!

That’s what I dream.

To see each player take his and her place.

To see the great light locate the babe.

To watch the kings and shepherds stumble onto the scene.

Hark! To hear the herald angels sing!

O the joy of being a simple farmhand.

Of being in the right place at always the right time.

Of course though I wouldn’t be alone.

In that darkened corner, also awaiting the entire affair, there are many others.

Most I don’t know by name.

Too many in fact to even count.

But a few I know for sure.

For certain, present are those few persistent peasants who wont stay away.

And of course there’s that wonderful anonymous parish priest.

The one who helped set into place this yet empty but very expectant stable.

The one whose fear of God is so clearly the beginning of wisdom.


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—Howard Hain

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3rd Sunday of Advent A: I Am Not The Christ

Audio homily here:

There’s something about John the Baptist that makes us uneasy. It’s not just the way he dresses or what he eats that disturbs us. He’s in the desert, after all, where you can’t keep up appearances or eat what you want. No, I think what makes us uneasy about John is his unflinching commitment to God. He’s loyal to the mission God gives him, no matter what, even if he has to die for it.

Our reading today from Matthew’s gospel begins in a prison where John’s waiting for death. He was put there by Herod Antipas, the ruler in Galilee, because John had criticized him and Herodias his new wife. It’s a ridiculous story, if you remember it. Criticizing powerful people can cost you your life. But John wasn’t afraid to do that; he spoke the truth no matter who was offended.

Even as he faces death, John doesn’t think of himself. He urges his disciples to look to Jesus and transfer their loyalties to him. “When John the Baptist heard in prison of the works of the Christ, he sent his disciples to Jesus with this question, ‘Are you the one who is to come, or should we look for another?’”

The film director, Martin Scorcese produced a movie recently based on a novel by the Japanese writer Shusaku Endo called “Silence.” The film and the novel explore the true story of the Jesuit martyrs in 17th century Japan who were put to death by crucifixion along with thousands of Japanese Christians. The story is filled with the doubts and questions they experience in their terrible ordeal. The Jesuit has to deal, above all, with his own pride and self-assurance. The silence is the silence of God, whom the novelist says sits with his arms folded before the suffering of others.

In an interview Scorcese was asked if he thought American Catholics would be able to stand the test of martyrdom. Would we die for what we believe? He said he thought we are too conflicted. We live in a different world, a world fascinated with technology and its promise to solve everything.

I suppose that’s why John the Baptist and stories of martyrs make us uneasy. For some years John preached and baptized in the desert region near the River Jordan. The Messiah is coming, he said. The Kingdom of God is at hand. Prepare the way of the Lord. God is coming to judge us all.

Many responded and believed what he said. Some thought that he himself was the Messiah, but John said no he was not. He wasn’t worthy to tie the sandals of the One who was to come. He was just a voice in the wilderness, he said.

Just a voice, John says. In a commentary, St. Augustine says that  “John is the voice, but the Lord is the Word who was in the beginning. John is the voice that lasts for a time; from the beginning Christ is the Word who lives for ever.”

John’s “voice” passes away. He no longer baptizes at the Jordan River. He cedes to the Word who will always speak. He cedes to the Word, and so should we.

Our voice passes away; something of ourselves has to go– some of the things we hold dear, the friends who surround us, institutions that upheld us.  Our way must give way to God’s way. Whether we know it or not we’re all facing martyrdom in different forms. We think so little of this.

Listen again to Augustine:  “What does prepare the way mean, if not be humble in your thoughts? We should take our lesson from John the Baptist. He is thought to be the Christ; he declares he is not what they think. He does not take advantage of their mistake to further his own glory.

“If he had said, ‘I am the Christ,’ you can imagine how readily he would have been believed, since they believed he was the Christ even before he spoke. But he did not say it; he acknowledged what he was. He pointed out clearly who he was; he humbled himself.

“He saw where his salvation lay. He understood that he was a lamp, and his fear was that it might be blown out by the wind of pride.”

Is that how we should look on ourselves too? We were given a lighted candle at our Baptism, symbol of the life God gives us in this world. We were given a voice, some talents to use. It’s up to us let our light shine, to speak as we can, to use our talents as best we can in the time we have here.

Jesus Christ, the Light, Sun of Justice, has come into the world. “I am not the Christ,” we say with John, “He is greater than I.”

Friday Thoughts: Just Up At Dawn

 

utagawa-hiroshige-titmouse-and-camellias-right-sparrow-and-wild-roses-center-and-black-naped-oriole-and-cherry-blossoms-left-ca-1833

Utagawa Hiroshige, “Titmouse and Camellias (right), Sparrow and Wild Roses (center), and Black-naped Oriole and Cherry Blossoms (left)”, ca. 1833

 

Lord, You are good.

Truly Good.

You are a great promise.

You are as good as Your Word.

You set free and You restore.

You truly make all things new.

I have seen great deeds.

Only Your hand can accomplish.

Within spaces.

So big and so small.

I have seen you in the sky and in the bird.

I have heard You cry and felt You shake.

I feel Your smile.

This very moment.

Good morning, Father.

You are so very good.

You are God.

And You alone.

Thank You for teaching me.

For showing me how to be free.

By asking only one thing.

Each and every moment.

What is Your will?

I need know nothing more.

I need not see, nor hear, nor feel, nor sense anything else.

I need not understand, nor remember, nor plan.

I need not desire nor will more than Your will itself.

I am.

Here.

To know.

To love.

To serve.

You.

And You alone.

That is Your will.

Your will is You.

One and the same.

Father, Son, Holy Spirit.

Holy Mother Church.

Holy Angels.

Holy Saints.

Cloud of Witnesses.

Help me, Lord God.

Maker of Heaven and Earth.

To love You more and more each day.

In all Your creation.

Every bit of Your handiwork.

All for Your sake.

Simple. Clear. Honest. Pure.

A sparrow just up at dawn.

Tweet…tweet…tweet…

I hear Your will knocking at my door.


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—Howard Hain

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http://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/56918

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Comfort for those who labor

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Wednesday’s Advent Gospel (Mt 11: 28-30) is so beautiful and comforting. No wonder it is specially beloved and quoted by so many of His people. “Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart; and you will find rest for yourselves. For my yoke is easy, and my burden light.”

     I am trying so hard to talk less and to listen more, for God’s voice, during my prayer. It is not easy. But reading these Gospel sentences from Jesus always makes me feel as if He is personally talking to me with all His tenderness and love.

     One of the blessings of retired life is that my wife and I can go for an early dinner at 5:00 p.m. on a weekday. Last Thursday, while looking out the picture window of the diner, I could see row upon row of slow-moving headlights on Northern Blvd. and the Clearview Expressway in Queens, NY: so many people sitting through the heavy traffic in their cars in the falling darkness after a long day at work. I spent so much of my life like that, like so many others “who labor and are burdened”, longing for a few hours of rest at home. Back then I did not realize that the place of rest was right there within my heart, where the Love of Jesus was always waiting patiently for my conversion.

     Now, years later, when I rest and rejoice in His Love, I have also learned from Him a thing or two. His Love makes His yoke easy and His burden light, but it is still a yoke and a burden. He calls us to share, and relieve, the burdens of so many of our brethren, His brothers and sisters.   

     In the November 26th issue of The Brooklyn Tablet, Fr. Robert Lauder writes:

      ” While many of us may be able to wax eloquently about how beautiful love is, we may need to remind ourselves that in our lives the call to love God and neighbor can be demanding. Dorothy Day, who spent her life loving and serving the poor often referred to an insight from Fyodor Dostoevsky’s novel,

‘The Brothers Karamasov’. The insight is that in reality, love can be a harsh and dreadful thing. Love can call us to make great sacrifices. Though we benefit from loving, that does not necessarily make loving easy.”

     I pray that the people in those cars realize what an important part love has in the sacrifices and struggles that they undergo in their work-lives. I pray that within their personal loves they discover, some time, somehow, the One who loves them beyond comprehension, the Source of everything that is worthwhile and good in their lives, the One who at the end of the road waits for them with open arms to give them true rest.

Orlando Hernandez

Morning Thoughts: Such Small Spaces

 

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Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres, “Virgin Adoring the Host” ca. 1850s

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Lord God, how is it You fit in such small spaces?

The Creator of all, the Maker of all things, He who knows every hair on every head—how is it Lord You fit in such small spaces?

The Light of Light, the King of Kings—the Heaven, the Earth, and all their Glory—how is it Lord You fit in such small spaces?

How is it Father that You fit in a cradle?

How is it Lamb of God that You fit in a host?

How is it Author of Life that You fit in a word?

How is it my Lord and my God You fit in such small spaces?


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—Howard Hain

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Friday Thoughts: Heaven Touching Earth

louis-cretey-the-vision-of-saint-bruno-late-17th-century

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The sound of heaven touching earth is silence.

For silence is the absence of interruption.

And in heaven there is continual praise. A constant, perpetual, ceaseless, indescribable continuation of everything good. There is no interruption of absolute goodness. No interruption of peace or prayer, no interruption of joy or love.

In heaven, then, the eternal roar may perhaps be so inadequately described as an incomprehensible silence—a silence that blissfully deafens.

Deafens us to any pain or fear.

Deafens us to even the thought, the idea, or the conception that there could be any pain or fear.

So then when heaven touches earth, does not that same awesome eternal silence also reign here too, as it does in heaven?

Silence reigns.


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—Howard Hain

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(image: Louis Cretey, “The Vision of Saint Bruno”, late 17th century)

God Calls

In yesterday’s Gospel  Jesus meets Peter, Andrew, James, and John by the Sea of Galilee and says:  “Come after me and I will make you fishers of men(Mt 4:19).” I have to regard it as miraculous that “at once”, “immediately “, these men leave all they have and all they do, and choose to follow Jesus.

The Bible has various examples of regular people who respond to the call of God, not with any “ifs, buts,and ors,” but in a state of immediate surrender and obedience: Abraham, the Blessed Mother, her husband Joseph. What is it about true, intimate contact with God that compels people to act like this? What did those Apostles see in the eyes of Jesus?

I humbly believe that they looked into the Sun that is Divine Love, and they realized  they could do nothing else but to follow that Love. Like all of us, they had been longing for this moment all their lives.

Henry J. M. Nouwen writes: “We are the Beloved. We are intimately loved long before our parents, teachers, spouses, children, and friends loved or wounded us. That’s the truth of our lives….. Yes, there is that voice, the voice that speaks from above and from within and that whispers softly or declares loudly: ‘You are my Beloved, on you my favor rests.'”  Yes, the Apostles on that shore had looked upon the Truth, and they felt within their hearts the calling to proclaim it, so that:

                  “Their voice has gone forth to all the earth,

                  and their words to the ends of the world.”(Rom 10:18)

All the way to me!  After 43 years of vacillation between indifference and longing, prompted by the example of loving people, and by the reading of the Scriptures, I beheld the risen Host one Sunday in a church in Queens, NY, and Jesus opened my eyes to His Truth and my ears to his message:  “You are my beloved.  In you my favor rests.” And then: “Come follow me.”

Wow!  It was that quick, how my life totally changed.  And here I am now.

The road was not easy for those Apostles who followed Jesus on that day in Galilee. It certainly has not been easy for me. But I know (even if sometimes I forget) that I am a beloved son of God, the same as every person on Earth, and I proclaim this in gratitude and joy.

              Orlando Hernandez

Morning Thoughts: Mary’s Mother

 

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Albrecht Durer, “Virgin and Child with Saint Anne”, ca. 1519 (The Met)

 

Christmas is a time for grandmothers.

They bake and cook and decorate. Their homes become mini North Poles, diplomatic outposts of Santa’s Castle.

At its core, Christmas is of course all about Jesus. All about Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. All about the Holy Family.

The Holy Family is an extended family though. And it doesn’t stop at grandmothers and grandfathers, aunts and uncles, or even cousins and distant cousins.

Just ask Saints Joachim and Anne, Zechariah and Elizabeth, or John the Baptist—not to mention all the unknown relatives whom the child Jesus surely encountered throughout His Galilean days. Ask any one of them about the far-reaching ripple effects of family grace.

Those touched by Jesus have a tendency to appear bigger than life.

Look at Santa Claus.

Most of us are aware that he is really Saint Nick.

But do we stop to wonder who Mrs. Claus really is?

I think she’s Saint Anne.

After all, Mrs. Claus is seen as everyone’s grandmother, especially when it comes to holiday cheer. But when it comes to truly celebrating the birth of Jesus, it is through Saint Anne that we approach the gates of Christ’s Nativity.

Mary’s Mother holds a special key. She is first among grandmas, first among those who pinch chubby cheeks, who pass along one more extra sugary treat.

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Saint Anne help us. Speak to us. Show us how to be grand parents to all those around us, especially the little ones. Stir up the spirit of Advent. Bake away the holiday blues. Cook up a dish of Christmas love that only your hearth can serve.

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Come one, come all, to the home of Saint Anne. Come with me to Grandma’s house for a holiday visit. Taste and see. Enter her kitchen, where the hot chocolate can always fit a little more whipped cream, where you hear the constant refrain: “eat…eat…eat…”

At Grandma’s your plate is never empty.

Her table is continually set.

She always sees Jesus as having just been born.

She is always wrapping Him up tightly in swaddling clothes.

It is simply grand.

To Grandma, Jesus is always an innocent child.

And she can’t help but see Him deep within both you and me.


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—Howard Hain

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http://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/436244

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Thanksgiving’s Coming

Thanksgiving Day’s coming Thursday in the USA and many will be with family and friends. We have just come through a brutally fought election and I wonder if some Thanksgiving gatherings this year will be as peaceful as in other years. Will fights continue over the table?

Our Mass readings these days are from the Book of Revelations and Luke’s gospel where Jesus speaks of the last times. They’re frightening, upsetting times.  “Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom.  There will be powerful earthquakes, famines, and plagues from place to place; and awesome sights and mighty signs will come from the sky.” (Luke 21,11)

Notice, though, the promise of peace found continually through these readings announcing chaos and destruction. “Not a hair of your head will be destroyed,” Jesus says in the gospel today. (Luke 21,19) God’s with us in the chaos.

In our Reading from Revelations today people are singing songs of victory. No matter how chaotic the times, God’s there in them, working his purpose in the chaos. The battle’s won, not lost, through the abiding power of God.

“Great and wonderful are your works,
Lord God almighty.
Just and true are your ways,
O king of the nations.”  (Revelations 15, 4)

We can sit down at Thanksgiving singing a victory song and remembering that not a hair of our head will be destroyed.

I see this year on Thanksgiving Day the church celebrates the feast of the Vietnamese martyrs killed in the 18th century. Saint Andrew Dung– Lac and 117 others were put to death in a cruel persecution of Christians. One of the characteristics of Christian martyrdom is the joy of the martyr in the midst of a frightful situation. Here’s a letter of Saint Paul Le-Bao-Tinh, one of the martyrs:

“I, Paul, in chains for the name of Christ, wish to relate to you the trials besetting me daily, in order that you may be inflamed with love for God and join with me in his praises. The prison here is a true image of everlasting hell: to cruel tortures of every kind – shackles, iron chains, manacles – are added hatred, vengeance, calumnies, obscene speech, quarrels, evil acts, swearing, curses, as well as anguish and grief. But the God who once freed the three children from the fiery furnace is with me always; he has delivered me from these tribulations and made them sweet, for his mercy is for ever.

“In the midst of  torments, that usually terrify others, I am, by the grace of God, full of joy and gladness, because I am not alone – Christ is with me.”

“I am not alone–Christ is with me.”

I suppose we can say that no matter bad we see the times, we can sit down at Thanksgiving with joy.