For this week’s homily, please watch the video below.
Education is up in the air these days. Our schools are struggling. How will kids be educated?
Our faith formation programs are struggling too. The Mass and sacraments–ordinary ways we pray–are drastically curtailed. What do we do?
Could our homes and families become our churches? Can we find teachers and temporary sacraments there?
A friend of mine was in prison for awhile and ended up once in solitary confinement after a fight he had with another inmate. He told me he remembered in the dark what a nun had told him about the rosary. Ten Hail Mary’s and an Our Father. He started counting the prayers on his fingers and, after awhile, he found a great peace came over him, so much so that after getting out of confinement he asked the chaplain for a rosary. It led to a profound conversion. He was changed by the experience there in the dark.
We’re living in the dark these days, but do these days have to diminish us? Maybe we can learn to pray more simply these days. Simple prayers we may have abandoned, maybe there’s a bible or a prayerbook lying forgotten in a drawer. Simple prayers are always the best, because God takes simple form to come to us. Jesus came “in the form of a slave,” remember, he used simple things like bread and wine to bring us his greatest gift.
This could be a time to pray simple prayers and to teach them to our kids. You never know when they’ll bring them peace.
Neil O’Donnell, a small farmer from Donegal, Ireland, where the crops had failed for years, came to the United States in 1882 and landed at Castle Garden at the Battery in New York City along with countless others looking for work and a home.
Castle Garden 1880s
Among my boyhood memories, I remember sitting in the summer on the front porch with the old man in the picture above with a pipe in his mouth. “Allo Bye,” he would shout out to passers-by in a thick Irish brogue. His sight was failing, but once the passer-by was known a lively conversation began about families, friends, the weather and everything else going on in close-knit Bayonne.
Neil died in 1942. I remember kneeling with my family, friends and neighbors outside his room next to the kitchen saying the Rosary as he was dying. I was at his big funeral at St. Mary’s church. Irish funerals were always big then, but this one was special I felt. A patriarch had died.
Neil didn’t look far for a job or a home when he got off the boat at Castle Garden. From the Staten Island Ferry, near the docks at St. George, you can still see today oil tanks at Constable Hook on the western shore of the harbor in Bayonne, NJ. In Neil’s day this was The Standard Oil Company of New Jersey, but for him then it was “Hughie Sharkey’s oil works” where he got the job he held all his working life. Hughie Sharkey was the guy who got Neil and Irishmen like him a job.
Neil married Sarah Givens, also from Donegal. They had six kids, four boys and two girls. Sarah died after the last was born and Neil brought his sister Mary out from Ireland to take care of the kids, but unfortunately she died shortly afterwards too.
“We made our way up in the world,” my mother often said. From a small house on 19th Street in Bayonne, they made their way to a two decker house on the Boulevard about a half-mile away. The first three kids had a minimal education, but the last three got more. My mother was the first to graduate from high school; the last two boys were sent to the Jesuit St. Peter’s High School in Jersey City. One became a priest, the other a New Jersey State Trooper.
A close immigrant family in a solidly Catholic neighborhood, the O’Donnells took care of each other and watched out for their neighbors too. Regularly, they brought others out from Ireland and helped them find jobs and homes of their own. They remembered where they came from.
With all our talk about immigrants these days, I think of Neil, the small farmer from Donegal where crops were failing, who found in America a job and a place to raise a family. His hours were long and his work was tough. The Standard Oil Company of New Jersey fiercely resisted workers’ demands for unionization and better working conditions in his day; in fact, it hired strike breakers to squash workers’ protests. My mother remembered when she was a girl a terrible day some workers were shot and killed near their home. But Neil and his boys working at the Hook never missed a day.
They never missed church either. With simple unquestioning faith they prayed at St. Mary’s church on 14th. St. They reverenced the priests and sisters there; they were especially fond of the Passionists priests who preached and served the parishes of Hudson County from their monastery in nearby Union City. Faith was never a small part of their lives.
Neil could scarcely read when he came to this country, my mother said, and one thing he wanted was to read the Bayonne Times like everyone else. She taught him how to read. I remember the old man, newspaper in hand, bent on getting the news of the day, like everyone else.
Not everyone in America appreciated Neil and immigrants like him, however. Nativist sentiments affected much of the country then as large numbers of foreigners, especially Irish Catholics, came to our shores. To some they brought poverty, disease and crime to America. Laws were proposed advocating literacy requirements and denial of voting rights to them. Catholics were denied jobs and access to political offices. Neil would never have made it here if the Know-Nothings and nativists had their way.
We celebrate our country’s generosity and openness to the world; but we can’t forget the ugly side of our history. You can see it here in some Nativist broadsheets and cartoons from the time, voices Neil must have heard. They’re still with us today in more subtler forms.
Among the anti-immigrant material I found, I came upon one that made me stop and wonder some more. In the 1880s the United States was pushing China for access to her markets. We wanted free ports and free trade with that land and demanded she take down her walls.
At the same time, Chinese laborers were entering our country, chiefly the west coast, to work on the railroads. They were cheap labor, competing with the Irish, the Italians and other immigrants for jobs. In 1882 Congress prohibited Chinese laborers from entering the country.
A Punch cartoon from that time saw the irony of the situation. We demand walls be pulled down and put up walls ourselves. Look carefully, though, at who brings the bricks for our wall. Immigrants like the Irish and others who came here, often not welcomed themselves.
I wonder what Neil would say about this? I wonder what his descendants are saying about immigration today? We who come from an immigrant church.
by Orlando Hernandez
In the Gospel (Lk 6: 27-38) for Thursday of the 23rd week in Ordinary Time our Lord gives us a splendid, demanding portrait of who He is, and of how we could become more like Him:
“Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you….. Do to others as you would have them do to you….. Stop judging and you will not be judged….. Stop condemning and you will not be condemned. Forgive and you will be forgiven.”
What a wonderful world this would be if we just stop looking at it with eyes of negativity and hopelessness! In the reading (Lk 6:39-42) for the next day, Friday of the 23rd week in Ordinary Time, this Gospel of Luke continues:
“Why do you notice the splinter in your brother’s eye, but do not perceive the wooden beam in your own?…. You hypocrite! Remove the wooden beam from your eye first; then you will see clearly to remove the splinter in your brother’s eye.”
I think on this Gospel and realize that a splinter in the eye can actually feel like a huge, heavy piece of wood (a beam!). It is indeed blinding and terribly distressing. The irritation paralyzes us and makes us stop whatever we are doing. For an instant, we feel helpless. I remember that more than once as a small child, walking with my father on a dusty, windy street, a painful object would find its way into my eye. Through my blinding tears I would try to reach out to my father, Orlando Sr., and would cry for him. His touch would calm and reassure me, but I was still hurting and scared. He would say soothing words, carefully open my agonized eye, and lightly reach in with his handkerchief. There was a second of pain and the object was out. As my tears would subside, I could see his handsome, smiling face in front of me. Wow, I felt relief, love, gratitude, and increased trust in him.
Now I realize, of course, that my Lord Jesus does something like this for me every time that I fall into the sinful state of prejudice, fear, and resentment of those I judge to be “bad.” This political season in our country feels like a whirlwind of dust and flying splinters all over the land. We judge politicians, and sadly, look negatively upon our relatives and neighbors, people we love, who support them, argue on their behalf, and criticize our “own” politicians. We might even think, “What is wrong with these persons? Have they lost their moral compass? Are they blind?”
This situation can be very upsetting and depressing, irritating, like a splinter in the eye. Cutting down on the news on the TV helps a little, but the only cure, the only relief for me is to reach out for Jesus my Lord, who in prayer mercifully comes to rescue me, and removes all that garbage from my eye. In prayer His Spirit soothes me, and begins to once again patiently teach me how to see with His eyes, the eyes of Love. I’m not sure, I think it was Buddha, who said, “If you want peace on earth you have to start by finding peace within yourself .” Well, for me, Christ the Prince of Peace is the one that makes this possible. It’s simple. I just try to relax, take a deep breath, call on His name, long for Him, and there He is, my Father, Brother, Doctor, Friend and Savior.
The splinter in the eye can come insidiously at any time. Last night in the nightly news there were three successive segments on devastating fires— the ones in California, the new fires eradicating even more of the Brazilian rain forest, and the one that totally destroyed the tent city where thousands of refugees crowded in the Island of Lesbos in Greece. My wife, Berta looks at me and says, uncharacteristically, “Where is God in all this?” I shake my head, and in my mind I see this image of a dying Earth, burning, afflicted by disease, hatred, extinction of life, abuse, poverty… being held by emaciated, pierced, bleeding hands. And those hands are what gave me hope. Suddenly my wife and I looked into each other’s eyes and remembered Who it is that holds us in the Palm of His Hand, Who is in charge, and His healing of the eyes of our hearts again began. Lord, what would we do without You?
That night, in our virtual prayer meeting, the Scriptural theme consisted of just four lines from the Book of Proverbs, Ch 3: 5-6:
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart,
on your own intelligence do not rely;
in all your ways be mindful of Him,
and He will make straight your paths.”
Jesus good Shepherd, Healer of eyes, lead us through these troubled times. Clear our eyes so we can see You in everyone we meet.
By Orlando Hernández
The Traditional Passionist Mission Prayer to Jesus Crucified expresses what happens to many of us Catholics after years of sitting at Mass or walking past crucifixes in churches, rectories and other religious places, even in our homes: “Lord, Jesus, for how many ages have You hung upon Your Cross, and still people pass You by and regard You not, except to pierce anew Your Sacred Heart. How often have I passed You by, heedless of Your great sorrow, Your many wounds, Your infinite Love.”
We look the other way, perhaps not wanting to be disturbed by His Passion, and the stark reminder of our own cruelty and mortality. Maybe we just take it for granted. This is an attitude similar to the one many of us have when we see His crucified people in the news, suffering all over the world, and we just change the channel. We feel more comfortable with happy news, with an image of a powerful, indestructible, sovereign God, instead of the “scrawny one on his cross,” as the Catholic novelist Shusaku Endo writes.
Perhaps Peter was feeling like this in the Gospel for the 22nd Sunday in Ordinary Time. (Mt 16: 21-27): “Jesus began to show His disciples that He must go to Jerusalem and suffer greatly from the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed and on the third day be raised. Then Peter took Jesus aside and began to rebuke Him, ‘God forbid, Lord! No such thing shall ever happen to You.’”
Perhaps Peter sees Jesus as the Warrior King, the Anointed One, the liberator of Israel from the Romans. Jesus, of course, rebukes him sharply and declares one of the messages that we can get from looking at all those crucifixes in our church: “Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me. For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.” Maybe not a very inspiring “pep talk” from a Warrior King to His soldiers.
At Our Lady of Victory Church in Floral Park, NY, a large crucifix hangs from wires, high over the first few pews. It is very impressive, similar to the one in “The Choir” chapel at the Passionist Monastery in Jamaica, Queens. I was sitting beneath it, admiring the artistry of this sculpture of the crucified Jesus, as I was waiting for Mass to begin. It was a beautiful object, nothing more.
I still had a half-hour wait so I started to read the Psalms on my phone. I was reading my beloved Psalm 24, which celebrates the entrance of the Arc of the Covenant, the Living God, into the Temple of Jerusalem. I always take it as an invitation to let God into my soul: “Lift up your heads, O you gates,/ Be lifted up you ancient portals,/ Let the king of glory enter in.” …..
Suddenly, the Holy Spirit of God decided to stop me on my tracks and teach me a big lesson. Psalm 24 goes on : “Who is this king of glory/? The Lord, strong and mighty/ The Lord, mighty in war/ …..Who is this king of glory?/ The Lord of hosts, he is the king of glory.”
I have many Catholic friends who talk about how we as a Church are engaged in a war. We are soldiers in this war; we are part of those “hosts.” However, I usually approach my spirituality in another way. I never think of my God as a military leader, a fighter, a general. But at that moment, in that Church, I felt it with all my heart, the urgency of the battle. I found myself asking: “Whom is He fighting against? Well, evil, suffering, and death, no?… And what are His weapons in this campaign?”
I was starting to imagine swords, and helmets, and breastplates, when suddenly I felt the urge to look up. My eyes were raised above me and I saw Him on he Cross, not a statue, but my Beloved Lord Jesus Christ. The thought struck me. THIS is the Warrior, the King of Glory. His weapons, incredibly enough, are surrender, non-violence, compassion, forgiveness, concern, self-giving, sacrifice, healing! That is what he offered me on that cross. In Revelation 19 it does say that He has a sword. It comes out of His mouth. It’s His Word, but it also says that He IS this Word. What word could possibly describe who He is except the word LOVE. That is the greatest weapon in this war! I was feeling dizzy, lost in Him as these thoughts swirled in my head.
Revelation 19 also describes the hosts of His Army. No military weapons either— just the white robes that He washed in His own blood, and I believe they were also equipped with hearts full of Love and all the work and sacrifice that it entails. So yes, as His warriors we carry His Cross in our hearts. This is how we can only possibly gain the ability to fight the evil around us and within our hearts.
I ran out of words beneath that Cross. I just sat there in pain and joy, sadness and glory, full of gratitude for the gift of His presence. I lost a little bit of my “life” right there. He came with His Life, filled that empty space with it, and made me just a little more like Him. Thank You, thank You, thank You, Beloved, Prince of Peace, King of Glory.
Since then every time I pass a crucifix I take a second look, maybe say “Thank You”. My Patron Saint, Paul of the Cross writes: “When you are alone in your room, take your crucifix, kiss its five wounds reverently, tell it to preach to you a little sermon, and then listen to the words of eternal life that it speaks to your heart.”
The Victor's Place 