St. Matthias Parish

A Letter from Father John

Dear Friends,

This past Monday was St. Matthias’ turn to host the monthly deanery meeting—the pastors from the eleven parishes in our area from Hollywood to Belmont/Kimball to the lake. Because we take the summer off and the weather forecast looked decent, instead of the usual format we relaxed outside in the rectory garden and had a barbeque. Every once in a while I find myself being my dad and proximity to a B.B.Q. grill is one of them. The precise ritual of lighting the charcoal (not propane!), the technique of scrubbing and oiling the grill, banking the coals, casually seasoning then, of course, burning the heck out of the meat are not exactly skills that my dad taught me; rather they are instincts and intuitions I absorbed standing beside him in a dense cloud of smoke on many a summer evening

I know there are a whole lot of other, much more important, things that I do just by instinct that, actually, I inherited from him. As it should be. Even now, dad died in 1985, I miss him, yet that’s okay because he’s never very far—never very far at all.

I’ve mentioned John O’Donahue here before. He was an incorrigibly Irish priest, philosopher, teacher and poet who died in his sleep at 53 in 2008. His last book was To Bless the Space Between Us, and in it he talks about what a real blessing ought to be. “A blessing is a circle of light drawn around a person to protect, heal and strengthen. It is a gracious invocation where the human heart pleads with the divine heart. When a blessing is invoked, a window opens in eternal time.” My dad was and is a real blessing for my sister and brother and me.

O’Donohue continued his reflection on blessing, “Our longing for the eternal kindles our imagination to bless. Regardless of how we configure the eternal, the human heart continues to dream of a state of wholeness, that place where everything comes together, where loss will be made good, where blindness will transform into vision, where damage will be made whole, where the clenched question will open in the house of surprise, where the travails of life’s journey will enjoy a homecoming. To invoke a blessing is to call some of that wholeness upon a person now.”

For dads, here’s a bit of one of John O’Donohue’s blessings— another bit to follow at this weekend’s Father’s Day Masses.

Like the joy of the sea coming home to shore, May the relief of laughter rinse through your soul.

As the wind loves to call things to dance, May your gravity be lightened by grace.

Like the dignity of moonlight restoring the earth, May your thoughts incline with reverence and respect.

As water takes whatever shape it is in, So free may you be about who you become.

As silence smiles on the other side of what’s said, May your sense of irony bring perspective.

As time remains free of all that it frames, May your mind stay clear of all it names.

May your prayer of listening deepen enough, To hear in the depths of the laughter of God.

God bless- especially may God bless the Dads of St. Matthias. On behalf of all your sons and daughters, thank you for all the gifts. Including those given in a dense cloud of charcoal smoke.

Fr. John

A Letter from Father John

Dear Friends,

Sister Mary Timothy, my fourth grade teacher, could spell, so could any number of my relatives. Father Andrew Greeley, Dickens, Twain and, last but not least, Jesus. (So, apparently being Irish is not essential.) By now it’s clear that we’re not talking about “spell” as in forming words out of letters but as in casting a spell. Sometimes these folks cast their spells by making-up a story, sometimes by re-telling an old tale and sometimes by recounting an event that they had seen or heard about or that had happened to them, personally. No matter, the effect on us listeners was/is carried to another place and time and into the rhythm of their story much as beautiful music, when the moment is just right, takes us elsewhere.

To this day I remember listening enthralled along with my classmates as Sr. Mary Timothy told us a story about a boy who found a bit of mysterious silver wire that he shaped into a key which made his homemade spaceship start-up and fly. Day after day, she spun this tall tale in the last minutes before the final bell and day after day we could barely wait to hear what new, wild episode Mary Timothy has to tell. That lady was a story teller. She could enchant.

I had some aunts, uncles and grandparents who did the same as they’d reminisce or just concoct an entertaining yarn from real facts punctuated with bald-faced lies. Sorting truth from fiction was left to us kids but, really, sorting it out wasn’t important. The story-- the whole story—that was important. Sometimes their tales were just meant to amuse, I think, and other times they were intended to teach but always these tales enchanted—took us to another place and time and back again. We were always better for the trip.

Father Andrew Greeley died last week. I only knew him ever so slightly years ago when I was first appointed chaplain of Calvert House at the University of Chicago and he had accepted an invitation to join our foundation board. We met for lunch twice to talk about the U. of C., Calvert, and the needs and concerns of the Catholic students and faculty. He told stories- mostly about the University—and I listened. He was gracious and interested and supportive and kind—and I was grateful. He was a wise and generous priest to me at those lunches and I learned a lot about the University and its people. (And about something called Indian pudding on the desert menu).

Father Greely was a story teller and he could enchant and then bring you back again and always be better for the trip.

I have to end here, kind of abruptly so I can make it to the funeral mass.

God bless,
Fr. John

A Letter from Father John

Dear Friends,

It was a brick bungalow at 8350 S. Dante Avenue—three bedrooms, living room, dining room, kitchen, a bathroom and a back porch. Two things about the house made it a little bit different than most of the other bungalows in the neighborhood. First, grandpa O’Neill’s house was a soft yellow brick rather than some shade of brown and second the “front” door was on the side of the house which meant that the living room was to the left of the little entrance hall and the rest of the house was on the right. So what? Well, that layout meant that the dining room in grandpa’s house was the hub and all the other rooms, hallways and staircases (to the attic and basement) were spokes. To get from one part of the house to any other meant you had to pass through the dining room. And, to further emphasize the hub and spoke motif, grandma’s dining room table was big, round and perched atop a massive oak pedestal. Sitting in the exact middle of the modest sized dining room, that table dictated that every route from room to room included a semi-circular detour along the way

Under the table was an old red patterned rug that had a perfectly round, deeply faded path in the nap worn down step -by-step by generations of shoes that circled the table on their way elsewhere. Theoretically, grandchildren could chase each other around the dining table endlessly—first clockwise then a quick reverse counter-clockwise—while the littlest kids sat beneath amused. In practice, however, grandma could stand the pandemonium for, maybe, two minutes and then end the race with a glance from the doorway.

Grandma and grandpa O’Neill both cooked, each having his/her specialties—grandpa, fish ( great) and corned beef (dreadful) and grandma everything else but most of all biscuits, cakes, cookies, pies etc.,etc., etc. When it came time to eat and a larger than usual crowd had gathered, mismatched chairs and stools would appear from all over the house. Somehow, no matter the number, there was always room for everybody to find a place around grandma’s table. After dinner it was my job, as the oldest grandchild, to push around the clunky old carpet sweeper until every last crumb was snatched. I think I was in high school before I passed Bissell duty on to a cousin.

St. Matthias Parish may not be a yellow brick bungalow on Dante Avenue but it does have its own hub with spokes reaching out in all kinds of directions. This weekend we are celebrating the feast of Corpus Christi—The Body of Blood of Christ. For 98 years, so far, uncounted thousands of people have climbed the front steps of our church millions of times and gathered at the Lord’s Table to hear again our ancient stories told in the Scriptures, to break the Bread and share the Cup, to celebrate Eucharist, to pray, to worship, to remember.

If you look closely at the limestone steps out front and the marble steps leading to the altar you’ll see how much they are like Grandma O’Neill’s dining room rug—noticeably worn down in key places by generations of footsteps making a path to the Lords’ table. It’s a good look. It suits our parish and our church well, I think.

And, there is a whole lot of mileage left in that old limestone and marble and plenty of room around our parish table for everyone, always. So… bring a friend, invite a stranger and make certain absolutely everybody feels welcome because wherever each of us is headed, the route should include a detour around the Lord’s Table along the way.

God Bless
Fr. John

A Letter from Father John

Dear Friends,

Two fish are swimming along and meet up with an old fish just leaving his house. The old fish smiles as they pass and says, “Good morning, guys, the water is nice today.” The first two fish nod and swim on. After a short, puzzled silence one of them turns to the other and asks, “What the hell is water?” To flog the obvious, fish don’t know water.

When I was a very young kid I heard ads on the radio that encouraged people to use Christmas Seals to fight tuberculosis. I didn’t know what tuberculosis was but it sounded bad. There was a sheet of Christmas seals around the house so I licked them and stick them on various things around the kitchen, bedrooms, bathroom… My mother was not pleased and honestly I didn’t understand why. If licking the back of some Christmas Seals and sticking them to stuff kept us all healthy why shouldn’t I do it?

I lived in a world of magic. Still do. That radio that told me about the wonders of Christmas Seals I just accepted as part of the world. Plug it in, turn the knob and it talked. How? Magic. 60 plus years later I can repeat words like electricity, radio waves, transmitter, antenna, receiver but I don’t really understand radios any better now than I did then. I mean, seriously, a ‘wave’ that starts inside a little box and spreads out in all directions at a gazillion miles an hour until it sweeps past another little box that then talks to me about Christmas Seals. First of all, what’s out there--that’s everywhere but invisible--that “waves?” Must be magic. A compass? Magic. Microwave popcorn? Magic. Babies? Magic. Grass? Magic. You get the idea. The more I try to drill down below the surface in order to truly understand the things that are right in front of my nose, the more elusive and mysterious these things become. Theories, discoveries, technologies pile higher and higher and they produce amazing new gadgets that continually fill the world and I barely notice much less question what really makes them work. I know some recipes but I don’t understand the ingredients or why they do what they do.

Fish don’t know water.

Today is Pentecost, Christ’s promise of the Holy Spirit; God who fills every crevice, every speck, every life with the divine spark and life, with love, with grace.

That’s so easy to say but what in the world does Pentecost mean, really, down deep under the surface of the words? By comparison Jesus of Nazareth is easy. He lived in a particular time, in a specific place, taught and told stories to certain people. All these years later we hear Him still. Study Him and get to know Him in some humanly accessible, if limited, ways. The man, Jesus, stands out and we can notice Him.

The revelation of God in the Holy Spirit is different. The Spirit is a little like the water in which we, and all creation, swims. The Spirit is a little like my mom’s radio; plugged in and turned to a station it talked and made music but I have no clue how that happens. Magic. Pentecost begs the question—How can we notice the Spirit of God who is right in front of our noses if that Spirit permeates everything, everywhere, always?

God Bless,
Fr. John

A Letter from Father John

Dear Friends,

This poem reflects upon the very first weeks and months of being/becoming a mom. I don’t know, obviously, but maybe what it says about that very earliest time echoes throughout the rest of a mother’s life with her children.

For A Mother-to-Be

Nothing could have prepared Your heart to open like this.

From beyond the skies and the stars This echo arrived inside you And started to pulse with life, Each beat a tiny act of growth, Traversing all our ancient shapes On its way home to itself.

Once it began, you were no longer your own. A new, more courageous you, offering itself In a new way to a presence you can sense But you have not seen or known.

It has made you feel alone In a way you never knew before; Everyone else sees only from the outside What you feel and feed With every fiber of your being.

Never have you traveled farther inward Where words and thoughts become half-light Unable to reach the fund of brightness Strengthening inside the night of your womb.

Like some primeval moon, Your soul brightens The tides of essence That flow to your child.

You know your life has changed forever, For in all the days and years to come, Distance will never be able to cut you off From the one you now carry For nine months under your heart.

May you be blessed with quiet confidence That destiny will guide you and mind you.

May the emerging spirit of your child Imbibe encouragement and joy From the continuous music of your heart, So that it can grow with ease, Expectant of wonder and welcome When its form is fully filled

And it makes its journey out To see you and settle at last Relieved, and glad in your arms.

John O'Donohue

Have a happy and blest Mothers Day!
Fr. John