From one sensing his neglect to examine his own life
This brief essay, or blog, will be written and posted as is. If I tell myself that I am merely beginning a little project, I have a way of procrastinating every step of the way. So if I journey only fifty feet now, still, I will come to some end, and let it go.
I write, as usual, for several reasons. The main reason is basic: to bring into light things not now in the light. In other words, to bring to consciousness some materials of which I am barely conscious at this time. I sense in me dis-ease or unrest over questions not answered, but even more, over questions I am not asking. What am I not asking or pursuing? What human task am I avoiding?These and related questions urge me to write in order to understand. Real questions arise from existential states—from what one experiences in real life.
Real questions are never clever intellectual games, such as a parishioner sprang on me recently (admittedly, in jest): “If all creatures are in God forever, then what happens to the trillions of insects, bacteria, and so on? Is heaven creeping with so many pests?” The question was cute, but not genuine. The young man was playing a clever game, and not really thinking about the point I was making: Whatever exists is in God eternally. That is my understanding of “eternal life.” It has been drawn from a passage in St. Luke’s Gospel in which clever intellectuals tried to trap Jesus on issues of “afterlife.” His basic answer: “To God all are alive.” To me, it is that simple, and that is sufficient.
In any case, I am not now seeking to clarify that particular insight, as I work on it every time I prepare another funeral. It is an abiding question of my soul. The present is different. I simply wanted to illustrate the difference between a real question and a clever word-game tossed out by a would-be intellectual. I think that Christ wasted no time with such tomfoolery. Nor shall I, if I can keep my wits. For there are real questions to ask, to pursue. What are they, and from where do they arise? As noted, real questions are existential, arising from and within one’s very life. Real questions are restless in our hearts, until we pursue them.
Now, I sense that I need to articulate the question I am not asking. I am not seeking to hide from God, from myself, or from a reader, but in truth, I very dimly sense that there is something pressing. That is the point. I am writing because I sense, I discern, that I am not asking a proper question now, or not pursuing what I ought to be pursing, or not living as I ought to live. Something does not feel right, and it is something vital to my living, to being a good human being. That is my sense. I am being urged from within—perhaps by God, I truly do not know at this point—to press into, to examine, to seek to find what I have partly lost. For there are some things which ought to be remembered, kept in consciousness: God is surely foremost among these “things,” although God is a non-thing, and transcends every meaning we can ascribe to “person.” God deserves more than I am giving now. I have not been sufficiently attending to God. That much is evident immediately.
Okay, I have a first formulation of what is urging me to write: a sense that I ought to be giving to God more and perhaps essentially other than I am at this time. The sense was triggered by a comment that recurred in Christmas cards sent to me from perhaps ten different parishioners. Here is the recurring gist: “Thank you for all that you do for us.” Those words, well-intentioned, touch my conscience, or disturb my soul. Why? Because I am not aware of doing much for parishioners, or for anyone. Yes, I make some attempts, and work on homilies, and so on. But I am aware that there is always far more than I could be doing. A job such as mine—a parish priest with parishioners strung out far and wide across God’s creation (perhaps 2000 square miles)—how can anyone possibly do justice to such a task? And what good am I truly providing these people? I often wonder: Could it be that I do more harm, than good? Or even that amidst doing some good,I also do some harm? Clearly some of the parishioners are wounded, as my approach to God and Christ requires thinking and self-examination, and many would-be Christians are just like everyone else: Many human beings refuse to think about their lives and what they are doing. The refusal to think about our lives, and how we are living, is one of the diseases of our “modern age.”
Am I failing to think about my life here and now? Surely I am not praying much any more, or not praying much in silence. I still read, and celebrate the Mass in public, and walk, and think about homilies, give some teachings, meet with parishioners, and so on, but overall, I cannot claim to be living an examined life. And what did Socrates say, in Plato’s Apology? “The unexamined life is not worthy of a human being.” That is a more literal translation of the Greek than what is often quoted: “The unexamined life is not worth living.” The measure is our humanity, and to be in the human mode is indeed a high calling. It behooves each of us, as human beings, to examine ourselves, to question ourselves, to test whether we really are living according to Christ, as the Apostle Paul urges us. Am I truly living according to Christ, to the measure of God’s gift? Hardly. No, I do not hold myself blameless, nor my life exemplary, by any means.
“Thank you for all that you do for us.” I repeat: The intention of the givers, of the speakers, is well appreciated. The men and women who wrote such a note to me surely meant well, sought to praise me, and to thank me. Still, their words point to my sense of incompletion, of ongoing failure in my life. I cannot be, will never be, a truly good parish priest, or a real man of God, or a true Christian. I may at best struggle towards such goals, but I am ever aware of painful shortcomings. This is not modesty, but sheer obvious truth: I am not what or who I should be, and I do not perform my duties as well as possible, or do all that I should do.
One reason I will never be fully happy in my work is that the work does not lend itself to complete happiness. It is of infinite demand, and gives little time for rest or reflection. It is contemplation, concentrated study, gazing on God, that alone brings true and full happiness, as Aristotle taught, as the mystics lived. I enjoy my work only when I am less than fully engaged in it. I need more time, more effort, for silent contemplation. Perhaps I am not saying this well. Most priests take vacations; I do not. Perhaps these vacations keep them “in the saddle,” make the work bearable. I know that quite a few priests like to “goof off,” and some spend very little effort preparing sermons. Some even read canned notes, prepared by someone else, bought and paid for! Stupid, but true. Perhaps these men enjoy their job. But in my opinion, if a man is truly aware of what we have undertaken—the care of souls, and helping to lead men and women to God—we cannot be truly at rest, never pat ourselves on the back, not look for escapes in vacations, cruises, second homes, and so on. The task is by its nature unlimited. And that makes it extremely difficult. Of course one can be pious and say, “I just do a little bit, and trust God for the rest.” More clever than profound, because the one who says this is probably in reality doing little, and excusing himself from harder work by saying, “I leave it to God.” And yet, there is a truth here, that ultimately one must trust the divine Partner to bring the good work to completion. And yet—here is the problem. How dare I speak for God? I, this human being, who knows all too well that I myself fall terribly short of divine justice? I know that I am indeed a sinner in need of divine forgiveness, and in myself, nothing, and empty. And yet: God is with me. I trust and rejoice in the presence of He Who Is, from moment to moment. Is that not enough? At the least, I should spend far more time truly seeking God. That much is coming to light here and now, once again.
What should I be doing for these parishioners that I am not now doing? As it is, I feel like a busy-body, driving all over the place, hectic, yet accomplishing little. More home visits are not the answer, really. I surely could use more assistance from lay persons to help tend the flock. But Catholic theology and practice dumped far too much on ordained priests, and then has set such limitations as to make too few eligible for ordination. It is absurd to demand so much of clergy, and insist that priests be neither married nor female. The older I get, the more injustice I see in this paradox: Such huge demands and expectations on priests, and then such a small pool from whom to draw its priests. No wonder so many of us are of quite low quality. We do not have to compete with married men or women. The pickings were slim, and so many of us got through seminary far too easily, giving far too little. Of course there are some high-quality priests. But there are too many of us who are just plain mediocre at best, and too many who are worse than mediocre. Some of the best human beings I have met are Catholic priests. And some of the worst human beings I have met are Catholic priests (or deacons). Why? Again, I point to the problem of having such a small pool of talent from which to draw for ordination. Most men, and nearly all good men, want to marry and have children. So these men are excluded. And then among women, I have known many Benedictine, Dominican, and other sisters who would make excellent ministers of the gospel and of the Eucharist by presiding at the Mass. (They are already in reality more priestly than many ordained priests. That much is obvious to anyone with eyes to see). But they are excluded from ordination for one reason only: their gender. This exclusion is not only unjust, but foolish. It serves to protect the body of all-male clergy, many of whom are not of a caliber worthy of our calling. In that group, I would include myself. I am here by default. They need someone to do a certain job, and I was available.
***
Now, I have written words off the top of my head, as they emerged in consciousness. Are they true, or wise? I am not sure. I spoke my heart, and know very well that what I wrote would be silenced by members of the Catholic hierarchy if they read it. Why? Some bishops even forbid us to discuss these matters, to think about who should be ordained. Why? Ordination is for the good of the lay persons whom we are ordained to serve, not for our own good. Indeed, as I have often said, one must sacrifice something of his own spiritual life to serve as a priest, because one is ever torn from prayer, study, quiet, contemplation, and forced at times to deal with very mundane but urgent matters. If I am hearing what Pope Francis says, he wants us in the Church to raise all of these questions, and to discuss them. Francis would not tell me, “How dare you question us? How dare you criticize the hierarchy?” No way. Francis himself is a constant testimony to the poor quality of most priests. How so? Because he is the real thing, and anyone who listens to him, and observes him, can see it. Most of us are just going through motions, putting in time, perhaps thinking about our next vacation, or a girl friend on the side, or a boy friend. Let’s be honest: the priestly life is not realistic and good for human beings as we exist in history. Far better to marry “than to be aflame with desire,” as St. Paul writes. Too many of us priests abuse alcohol, and that problem is exacerbated by loneliness. Too many of us get caught up in the things of the world (myself included, with the need to invest, as I will receive no pension after some 35 years of service). All of us lack a good spouse to remind us of our failings, and to help us to live more holy lives. This is a lesson of Francis to me: “Really and truly learn to love, to serve, to help your people. Seek justice with them, and for them. And smell like your sheep (without sleeping with them).”
***
Now it is time for what I most love when writing: a new beginning. The thoughts move so far, and then I say, “Halt!,” and want to return to the surface, begin afresh.
What am I overlooking in the present brief essay that should be included?Am I thankful for my present job? Yes. But I must add: I am also ashamed at not being more, having more to give. Okay, I have said that. What needs to be added? Should I resign? Why? Do I really believe that these parishioners would be provided with a better priest? Given what I have seen around here,I smirk and shade my head. What? An ultra-traditionalist who thinks that mumbling words in Latin is more pleasing to God than speaking plain English that people can understand? Some of these young priests mean well, but they come across to me as pretentious and self-righteous, or at least, naive. God does not need Latin, lace, or fancy linens. God needs men to live Christ faithfully, and extend Christ’s heart and hand to each and to all. And may God spare the faithful from heavy-handed senior pastors, who are full of themselves, convinced of their own wisdom and prudence, and who truly do not respect women, or anyone, really, but themselves.
Yes, Christ. What has happened to Christ in this little essay?The light of my life. Where has He gone? Have I hidden Christ under a bushel basket? Or killed him afresh in my attitude towards so many clergy? Where is Jesus Christ in these words? Do I truly want and seek Christ? Surely I used to love Christ; but has my love grown cold? In truth, my love for Christ seems to have grown cold, or at least, far cooler. I have been horribly scandalized by what I have seen from brother priests. My conscience hurts for the evils I have seen, and that have gone uncorrected. Where is justice here? And where is Christ? Yes, Jesus was patient with Judas. Would that the Catholic Church had far fewer Judas-priests. Am I one of them? At times I am like Peter—bold, brash, overly self-confident, but at least fresh. At times, I am Judas, who betrays my Lord in my own life. At times I am like the Apostle Paul, on fire to proclaim Christ, but wounded by my own wounded temperament, my weaknesses. Christ deserves better.
And yet, here I am. If God wills that I remain here, I will remain: in this job, and in this world. But if I remain in my present job, or for however long as I remain, I must seek to come up to the standard of trust that some of these parishioners have placed in me: “Thank you for all that you do for us.” Even the bishop has place trust in me, assigning me here. And for that I am grateful. And to my abbot, for not (yet) rescinding my right to serve as a parish priest. As he knows, I do not intend to return to monastic life. That door has closed. How to serve better this evening, and tomorrow: that is the question. And to serve better, I am to seek better: I must return again and again in prayer, in heartfelt longing, to dialogue, to the God who comes to us in Christ Jesus. That much I know as clear as day.
***
This effort has not been wasted. I see more clearly now what urges me in unrest: to seek God more truly, to turn to God in more genuine prayer. That is the one thing necessary. And of this I have no doubt: If and only if I truly become a man of prayer, will I have to give what these good parishioners truly need. They need God, as I do. My job is to help bring them to God, and God to them. To do that, I must live in and for Christ far more authentically. And that means: Pray. Seek the One who is seeking me.
This brief essay, or blog, will be written and posted as is. If I tell myself that I am merely beginning a little project, I have a way of procrastinating every step of the way. So if I journey only fifty feet now, still, I will come to some end, and let it go.
I write, as usual, for several reasons. The main reason is basic: to bring into light things not now in the light. In other words, to bring to consciousness some materials of which I am barely conscious at this time. I sense in me dis-ease or unrest over questions not answered, but even more, over questions I am not asking. What am I not asking or pursuing? What human task am I avoiding?These and related questions urge me to write in order to understand. Real questions arise from existential states—from what one experiences in real life.
Real questions are never clever intellectual games, such as a parishioner sprang on me recently (admittedly, in jest): “If all creatures are in God forever, then what happens to the trillions of insects, bacteria, and so on? Is heaven creeping with so many pests?” The question was cute, but not genuine. The young man was playing a clever game, and not really thinking about the point I was making: Whatever exists is in God eternally. That is my understanding of “eternal life.” It has been drawn from a passage in St. Luke’s Gospel in which clever intellectuals tried to trap Jesus on issues of “afterlife.” His basic answer: “To God all are alive.” To me, it is that simple, and that is sufficient.
In any case, I am not now seeking to clarify that particular insight, as I work on it every time I prepare another funeral. It is an abiding question of my soul. The present is different. I simply wanted to illustrate the difference between a real question and a clever word-game tossed out by a would-be intellectual. I think that Christ wasted no time with such tomfoolery. Nor shall I, if I can keep my wits. For there are real questions to ask, to pursue. What are they, and from where do they arise? As noted, real questions are existential, arising from and within one’s very life. Real questions are restless in our hearts, until we pursue them.
Now, I sense that I need to articulate the question I am not asking. I am not seeking to hide from God, from myself, or from a reader, but in truth, I very dimly sense that there is something pressing. That is the point. I am writing because I sense, I discern, that I am not asking a proper question now, or not pursuing what I ought to be pursing, or not living as I ought to live. Something does not feel right, and it is something vital to my living, to being a good human being. That is my sense. I am being urged from within—perhaps by God, I truly do not know at this point—to press into, to examine, to seek to find what I have partly lost. For there are some things which ought to be remembered, kept in consciousness: God is surely foremost among these “things,” although God is a non-thing, and transcends every meaning we can ascribe to “person.” God deserves more than I am giving now. I have not been sufficiently attending to God. That much is evident immediately.
Okay, I have a first formulation of what is urging me to write: a sense that I ought to be giving to God more and perhaps essentially other than I am at this time. The sense was triggered by a comment that recurred in Christmas cards sent to me from perhaps ten different parishioners. Here is the recurring gist: “Thank you for all that you do for us.” Those words, well-intentioned, touch my conscience, or disturb my soul. Why? Because I am not aware of doing much for parishioners, or for anyone. Yes, I make some attempts, and work on homilies, and so on. But I am aware that there is always far more than I could be doing. A job such as mine—a parish priest with parishioners strung out far and wide across God’s creation (perhaps 2000 square miles)—how can anyone possibly do justice to such a task? And what good am I truly providing these people? I often wonder: Could it be that I do more harm, than good? Or even that amidst doing some good,I also do some harm? Clearly some of the parishioners are wounded, as my approach to God and Christ requires thinking and self-examination, and many would-be Christians are just like everyone else: Many human beings refuse to think about their lives and what they are doing. The refusal to think about our lives, and how we are living, is one of the diseases of our “modern age.”
Am I failing to think about my life here and now? Surely I am not praying much any more, or not praying much in silence. I still read, and celebrate the Mass in public, and walk, and think about homilies, give some teachings, meet with parishioners, and so on, but overall, I cannot claim to be living an examined life. And what did Socrates say, in Plato’s Apology? “The unexamined life is not worthy of a human being.” That is a more literal translation of the Greek than what is often quoted: “The unexamined life is not worth living.” The measure is our humanity, and to be in the human mode is indeed a high calling. It behooves each of us, as human beings, to examine ourselves, to question ourselves, to test whether we really are living according to Christ, as the Apostle Paul urges us. Am I truly living according to Christ, to the measure of God’s gift? Hardly. No, I do not hold myself blameless, nor my life exemplary, by any means.
“Thank you for all that you do for us.” I repeat: The intention of the givers, of the speakers, is well appreciated. The men and women who wrote such a note to me surely meant well, sought to praise me, and to thank me. Still, their words point to my sense of incompletion, of ongoing failure in my life. I cannot be, will never be, a truly good parish priest, or a real man of God, or a true Christian. I may at best struggle towards such goals, but I am ever aware of painful shortcomings. This is not modesty, but sheer obvious truth: I am not what or who I should be, and I do not perform my duties as well as possible, or do all that I should do.
One reason I will never be fully happy in my work is that the work does not lend itself to complete happiness. It is of infinite demand, and gives little time for rest or reflection. It is contemplation, concentrated study, gazing on God, that alone brings true and full happiness, as Aristotle taught, as the mystics lived. I enjoy my work only when I am less than fully engaged in it. I need more time, more effort, for silent contemplation. Perhaps I am not saying this well. Most priests take vacations; I do not. Perhaps these vacations keep them “in the saddle,” make the work bearable. I know that quite a few priests like to “goof off,” and some spend very little effort preparing sermons. Some even read canned notes, prepared by someone else, bought and paid for! Stupid, but true. Perhaps these men enjoy their job. But in my opinion, if a man is truly aware of what we have undertaken—the care of souls, and helping to lead men and women to God—we cannot be truly at rest, never pat ourselves on the back, not look for escapes in vacations, cruises, second homes, and so on. The task is by its nature unlimited. And that makes it extremely difficult. Of course one can be pious and say, “I just do a little bit, and trust God for the rest.” More clever than profound, because the one who says this is probably in reality doing little, and excusing himself from harder work by saying, “I leave it to God.” And yet, there is a truth here, that ultimately one must trust the divine Partner to bring the good work to completion. And yet—here is the problem. How dare I speak for God? I, this human being, who knows all too well that I myself fall terribly short of divine justice? I know that I am indeed a sinner in need of divine forgiveness, and in myself, nothing, and empty. And yet: God is with me. I trust and rejoice in the presence of He Who Is, from moment to moment. Is that not enough? At the least, I should spend far more time truly seeking God. That much is coming to light here and now, once again.
What should I be doing for these parishioners that I am not now doing? As it is, I feel like a busy-body, driving all over the place, hectic, yet accomplishing little. More home visits are not the answer, really. I surely could use more assistance from lay persons to help tend the flock. But Catholic theology and practice dumped far too much on ordained priests, and then has set such limitations as to make too few eligible for ordination. It is absurd to demand so much of clergy, and insist that priests be neither married nor female. The older I get, the more injustice I see in this paradox: Such huge demands and expectations on priests, and then such a small pool from whom to draw its priests. No wonder so many of us are of quite low quality. We do not have to compete with married men or women. The pickings were slim, and so many of us got through seminary far too easily, giving far too little. Of course there are some high-quality priests. But there are too many of us who are just plain mediocre at best, and too many who are worse than mediocre. Some of the best human beings I have met are Catholic priests. And some of the worst human beings I have met are Catholic priests (or deacons). Why? Again, I point to the problem of having such a small pool of talent from which to draw for ordination. Most men, and nearly all good men, want to marry and have children. So these men are excluded. And then among women, I have known many Benedictine, Dominican, and other sisters who would make excellent ministers of the gospel and of the Eucharist by presiding at the Mass. (They are already in reality more priestly than many ordained priests. That much is obvious to anyone with eyes to see). But they are excluded from ordination for one reason only: their gender. This exclusion is not only unjust, but foolish. It serves to protect the body of all-male clergy, many of whom are not of a caliber worthy of our calling. In that group, I would include myself. I am here by default. They need someone to do a certain job, and I was available.
***
Now, I have written words off the top of my head, as they emerged in consciousness. Are they true, or wise? I am not sure. I spoke my heart, and know very well that what I wrote would be silenced by members of the Catholic hierarchy if they read it. Why? Some bishops even forbid us to discuss these matters, to think about who should be ordained. Why? Ordination is for the good of the lay persons whom we are ordained to serve, not for our own good. Indeed, as I have often said, one must sacrifice something of his own spiritual life to serve as a priest, because one is ever torn from prayer, study, quiet, contemplation, and forced at times to deal with very mundane but urgent matters. If I am hearing what Pope Francis says, he wants us in the Church to raise all of these questions, and to discuss them. Francis would not tell me, “How dare you question us? How dare you criticize the hierarchy?” No way. Francis himself is a constant testimony to the poor quality of most priests. How so? Because he is the real thing, and anyone who listens to him, and observes him, can see it. Most of us are just going through motions, putting in time, perhaps thinking about our next vacation, or a girl friend on the side, or a boy friend. Let’s be honest: the priestly life is not realistic and good for human beings as we exist in history. Far better to marry “than to be aflame with desire,” as St. Paul writes. Too many of us priests abuse alcohol, and that problem is exacerbated by loneliness. Too many of us get caught up in the things of the world (myself included, with the need to invest, as I will receive no pension after some 35 years of service). All of us lack a good spouse to remind us of our failings, and to help us to live more holy lives. This is a lesson of Francis to me: “Really and truly learn to love, to serve, to help your people. Seek justice with them, and for them. And smell like your sheep (without sleeping with them).”
***
Now it is time for what I most love when writing: a new beginning. The thoughts move so far, and then I say, “Halt!,” and want to return to the surface, begin afresh.
What am I overlooking in the present brief essay that should be included?Am I thankful for my present job? Yes. But I must add: I am also ashamed at not being more, having more to give. Okay, I have said that. What needs to be added? Should I resign? Why? Do I really believe that these parishioners would be provided with a better priest? Given what I have seen around here,I smirk and shade my head. What? An ultra-traditionalist who thinks that mumbling words in Latin is more pleasing to God than speaking plain English that people can understand? Some of these young priests mean well, but they come across to me as pretentious and self-righteous, or at least, naive. God does not need Latin, lace, or fancy linens. God needs men to live Christ faithfully, and extend Christ’s heart and hand to each and to all. And may God spare the faithful from heavy-handed senior pastors, who are full of themselves, convinced of their own wisdom and prudence, and who truly do not respect women, or anyone, really, but themselves.
Yes, Christ. What has happened to Christ in this little essay?The light of my life. Where has He gone? Have I hidden Christ under a bushel basket? Or killed him afresh in my attitude towards so many clergy? Where is Jesus Christ in these words? Do I truly want and seek Christ? Surely I used to love Christ; but has my love grown cold? In truth, my love for Christ seems to have grown cold, or at least, far cooler. I have been horribly scandalized by what I have seen from brother priests. My conscience hurts for the evils I have seen, and that have gone uncorrected. Where is justice here? And where is Christ? Yes, Jesus was patient with Judas. Would that the Catholic Church had far fewer Judas-priests. Am I one of them? At times I am like Peter—bold, brash, overly self-confident, but at least fresh. At times, I am Judas, who betrays my Lord in my own life. At times I am like the Apostle Paul, on fire to proclaim Christ, but wounded by my own wounded temperament, my weaknesses. Christ deserves better.
And yet, here I am. If God wills that I remain here, I will remain: in this job, and in this world. But if I remain in my present job, or for however long as I remain, I must seek to come up to the standard of trust that some of these parishioners have placed in me: “Thank you for all that you do for us.” Even the bishop has place trust in me, assigning me here. And for that I am grateful. And to my abbot, for not (yet) rescinding my right to serve as a parish priest. As he knows, I do not intend to return to monastic life. That door has closed. How to serve better this evening, and tomorrow: that is the question. And to serve better, I am to seek better: I must return again and again in prayer, in heartfelt longing, to dialogue, to the God who comes to us in Christ Jesus. That much I know as clear as day.
***
This effort has not been wasted. I see more clearly now what urges me in unrest: to seek God more truly, to turn to God in more genuine prayer. That is the one thing necessary. And of this I have no doubt: If and only if I truly become a man of prayer, will I have to give what these good parishioners truly need. They need God, as I do. My job is to help bring them to God, and God to them. To do that, I must live in and for Christ far more authentically. And that means: Pray. Seek the One who is seeking me.
