"The Wisdom of Les Miserables": In Search of Practical Wisdom for Daily Living: What good can one person do? (When All Else Fails)...

When faced with seemingly overwhelming evil, can one person really make a difference?



"The Wisdom of Les Miserables": In Search of Practical Wisdom for Daily Living: What good can one person do? (When All Else Fails)...: For 22 consecutive days in the spring of 1993, Sarajevo Opera cellist Vedran Smailovic dressed in his tuxedo at midday. Carrying his black...

Easter: Life in the Silence

[Disclaimer: I am not a pet person, so the following won't contain much scientific data or insight.]

Two weeks ago, five caterpillars moved into my office--rent free. They're part of a mail-order nature project my wife put together for our 4-1/2 year-old grandson Dominic. As soon as those little guys greeted the sunny  kitchen light streaming into their plastic container, they received new names. Dominic identified them as Nikki, Dom, Dominique, Penny, and Caleb. And I really think that he alone could tell who was who, as the days progressed. We chose my office for their greater habitat, because my computers are on all night and generate some warmth on chilled Northern California nights.

The caterpillars arrived tiny and skinny. The three of us  watched in awe as they practically doubled in size every day, consuming chunks of poop-like 'food' from the floor of their container. A week later, we had five long, fat caterpillars who each could stretched from the bottom of the cup to the lid (their evolutionary destination). After a lot of up-and-down trips to check out the best locations for their crusted, enclosed chrysalises, the day came to attach. That was our signal to make the transfer to their mesh habitat.

So, here we are on the Vigil of Easter, watching the 'lifeless' chrysalises, waiting, knowing that behind those little  hardened cases, an amazing transformation is occurring. Five fuzzy caterpillar bodies are growing wings that, when strong enough, will burst the walls of  their tombs and fly into a new and world-brightening stage of existence as Painted Lady butterflies (even the guys among them). 

What a wonderful reminder of the meaning and joy of Easter!


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Alfred J. Garrotto is the author of The Saint of Florenville: A Love Story.

Inviting Readers to Rewrite My Stories

This post first appeared as a guest blog on the site of mystery writer, Camille Minichino, "The Real Me."  I am happy now to bring it home for my readers here to share.

As an author of fiction who writes for publication, I hold my stories lightly when I share them with my readers. I try not to be too possessive or caught up in “will they get it?” It has taken time, but I have come to understand that no two persons reading the same book will read it the same way, let alone imbibe the author’s precise intent. The same is true of film and the performing arts. No two movie goers interpret the same film in exactly the same way.

I’ve known this all my life as a reader and film lover. Now that I am on the other side of the artistic process, I am aware that I must let readers ‘rewrite’ my novels, find their own interpretation, and apply them to their own lives. I am no longer caught up in whether they “get” my story. Once out of my hands, it becomes their story.

The following “Aha!” passage in Misquoting Jesus by Bart D. Ehrman made this insight click for me: “Once readers put a text in other words, they have changed the words. This is not optional when reading; it is not something you can choose not to do when you peruse a text. The only way to make sense of a text is to read it, and the only way to read it is by putting it in other words, and the only way to put it in other words is by having words to put it into, and the only way you have other words to put it into is to have a life, and the only way to have a life is by being filled with desires, longings, needs, wants, beliefs, perspectives, worldviews, opinions, likes, dislikes—and all the other things that make humans human. And so to read a text is, necessarily, to change a text”(the underline is mine).

Now, I look forward to readers’ interpretations of my stories. I  especially enjoy having someone discover a level of meaning beyond my conscious intent. Recently, I received this message in an e-mail from a reader: “The value of The Saint of Florenville: A Love Story is in it’s real life application to modern-day sainthood. In their day, all of our martyred saints’ lives (and deaths) would have been every bit as gruesome. In a sense, not to die and to live through it, may be even more brutal to the human spirit. Yet these two saints do survive.” That’s more than I had in mind when I wrote the book, and I am grateful to this reader—and others—for helping me to better understand my own stories.

(c) 2012 by Alfred J. Garrotto

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The Saint of Florenville: A Love Story is available in paperback and all e-book formats.

Guest Blogging at "Camille Minichino--The Real Me"

Today I have the privilege of guest blogging at "Camille Minichino--The Real Me." I hope you'll visit as I muse about the need for authors to let go of their stories once they share their creations with the universe. My understanding is that every reader becomes a co-author with the original writer. I hope you'll take a moment to read my short reflection and comment with how you see this process working--as a writer and/or reader.

Alfred J. Garrotto

The Saint of Florenville: A Love Story

Guest Blogger: Mystery Writer Camille Minichino

I am pleased to welcome my friend, colleague, and renowned mystery writer Camille Minichino, who today launches her third series with, The Probability of Murder. Writing as Ada Madison, she introduces her latest sleuth, college professor Sophie Knowles. 


It's an honor to have Ada Madison stop by at "The Wisdom of Les Miserables" as she continues her whirlwind launch-day blog tour. Get the full scoop about Camille/Ada, her noms de plume, and her crime solving protagonists on her website.

Small Truths, Great Truths

Where do you go when you need wisdom and a good quote? To a Nobel physicist, of course. Niels Bohr, born the year Victor Hugo died, and a pioneer in atomic structure, kept me up all night wondering about this observation. 

I thought blogging about it might help, or at least spark a good debate:

“There are two kinds of truth, small truth and great truth. You can recognize a small truth because its opposite is a falsehood. The opposite of a great truth is another truth.”

 It's clear how this works for a small truth. It's Monday, March 12, 2012 is a small truth. "It's not Monday, March 12, 2012," is clearly false, at least for a day. Small truths are simple, and often temporary, it seems: He's tall. I'm hungry. It's freezing outside.

What about the great truths? Say, one of the great truths of the Bible? In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.

What would be its opposite? That the heaven and the earth created God, for example?

Now I get it. This fits in with my understanding of Alfred North Whitehead (Process and Reality, 1929): "It is as true to say that God is permanent and the World fluent, as that the World is permanent and God is fluent."

Who's to say which of these statements is the truer? They're both great truths. We can live wisely by either one.

 I'm reminded of an old cartoon where the dialogue goes like this:

Character 1: "Do you think humans on earth are the only intelligent life in the universe?"

Character 2: "Either way, it's a sobering thought."

I'll have to admit, for words of wisdom, cartoons are a close second to physics.

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Alfred J. Garrotto is the author of the suspense novel, The Saint of Florenville: A Love Story.

"Sagrada Familia: Favorite Church Comes Alive"

Image by Wolfgang Staudt via Flickr

Here's what some pretty famous and knowledgeable people have said about my favorite church in the whole wide world, the newly consecrated but not yet completed Basilica of La Sagrada Familia (the Holy Family) in Barcelona, Spain . . . .

George Orwell: one of the most hideous buildings in the world. 

Salvador Dali:"superbly creative bad taste."

Disclaimer: I haven't seen every church in the whole wide world, so let's say, my favorite among those I have visited. I also exclude my own parish church which has been and remains a beloved home to all my family.

I first visited the construction site in May of 1964. By then work had been in progress for 88 years. All I saw at that time was the massive shell of what had been the dream and passion of one man, Catalonian architect Antoni Gaudi i Cornet (1852-1926). The young architect (31) received the commission to build this church in 1883, after his predecessor resigned only one year into the project. Gaudí's concept wedded the human and divine. He labored at the task until his untimely death in 1926. The circumstances of his death make a great story in themselves. He was run over by a tram on a Sunday morning while walking home from Mass. For some time, he lay in a coma without anyone knowing  who he was. His remains are buried in the church's crypt.


From the beginning, Sagrada Familia was declared an "expiatory church." I had never heard the term until this week. It means that construction was entirely dependent on private donations and proceeded only when and as long as  money was on hand (no wonder it's taken so long). Gaudí was known to go out on the street and beg for money during his lunch breaks (siestas).


I visited Sagrada Familia again on July 18, 2008. This time I was able to study the magnificent front and rear facades of the church and tour the construction site's interior perimeter. "Thrilled" is too tame a word to describe my feelings. At a time when Americans and Europeans--even believers among us--are reluctant to call any space "sacred," that is exactly what Gaudí envisioned. The nearly finished building fits that definition for me and for most of the millions who flock to Barcelona each year to experience in actuality what the great architect only envisioned.

On November 7, 2010, Pope Benedict XI consecrated the church in the presence of 6,500 people inside the structure and many thousands of Barcelonans and pilgrims who jammed to streets around the exterior of the complex. In his homily Benedict described Gaudí's vision for the church that will be completed in 2026 (the centennial of Gaudí's death. 

"[He] accomplished one of the most important tasks of our times: overcoming the division between human consciousness and Christian consciousness, between living in this temporal world and being open to eternal life, between the beauty of things and God as beauty. Antoni Gaudí did this not with words but with stones, lines, planes, and points. Indeed, beauty is one of mankind’s greatest needs; it is the root from which the branches of our peace and the fruits of our hope come forth." 

For the best views of the magnificent interior, I recommend the full 3-hour video of the consecration ceremony. Even if you don't watch the whole ceremony and Mass (who would besides this old blogger?), you can skip ahead to watch some of the finest and most breathtaking television camera work I've ever seen.


Below are some of my own 2008 photos of not-yet-opened interior and the two (of the eventual three) completed facades: The Birth of Christ and The Passion of Christ.

Above: Main Entrance Facade--The Passion of Christ

Veronica Wipes the Face of Jesus

 Nave ceiling: Trees reaching to the stars 

Even today, only some of the the
stained glass windows are in place.

The Nativity (Birth of Christ) Facade

Shepherds Worship the Christ Child

In a future post, I will share more about Antoni Gaudi's life and work.

Images (c) 2008 Aflred J. Garrotto

See also October 1, 2015 Sagrada Familia documentary post.

Related articles

• Pope dedicates Barcelona's iconic Sagrada Familia (cnn.com)

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Alfred J. Garrotto is the author of the suspense novel,

The Saint of Florenville: A Love Story.

"The Social Network" (Review)

Watching the credits roll at the end of The Social Network, my knee-jerk instinct was to cancel my Facebook account. Screenwriter Aaron Sorkin’s rapid-fire dialogue seemed always a step behind Mark Zuckerberg’s (Jesse Eisenberg) mental lightning flashes. The rapid flow of often unintelligible intelligence could not disguise the essential emptiness of the Facebook founder’s moral bank. 

The same might be said of co-founder Eduardo Saverin (Andrew Garfield) and the wimp-jock Winklevoss twins (Armie Hammer and Josh Pence) whose litigation centering around ownership and intellectual property rights dominated the film’s second and third acts, sharing time with round-the-clock drugs-booze-sex-programming marathons. 

Nor could director David Fincher’s slick film-making mitigate the ultimate triumph of Gordon Gekko’s (Wall Street) “Greed is good” gospel, articulated by Justin Timberlake in the role of Napster founder Sean Parker. The Social Network ends up being a cautionary tale about the dark-side hacker philosophy, “I do it because I can, and it’s right because I can do it.”


The fresh air outside the theater, calmed my spleen making room for a second reaction to the film. Why did I join Facebook in the first place and quickly collect over 300 friends? Despite its origins, Facebook as it exists today allows me to stay in touch with family members, obviously, but also with many of the hundred and fifty new Catholics I have ministered to in my local parish. 

With a minimum of words or a quick click on Like, I offer congratulations when babies are born and condolences when a death occurs in the family. I acknowledge birthdays, offer support on difficult days at work or school, pop in for a real-time chat when someone I care about is online. These virtual extensions of ministry require little time, yet let people I rarely encounter face to face know that they are on my mind and in my prayers.


The Social Network reinforced my awareness that life is messy and human motives are never pure. It also reminded me that one person’s greed can enable another’s response to grace.

[Note: This review is not a comment on the actual persons named in the film, The Social Network. It is based solely on their onscreen portrayal.]

A Reflection on Anne Rice's Rejection of Christianity

I have great respect for Anne Rice. 

She is an outstanding American author and, since returning to her Catholic roots, has written two volumes of her life of Jesus, Christ the Lord: Out of EgyptChrist the Lord: The Road to Cana and . Her personal apologia at the end the first book (audio version) is truly admirable and inspiring. In July 2010, Ms. Rice announced that she has decided that she will remain faithful to the Risen Jesus (Christ), but that she can no longer be a part of the dysfunctional, ragtag mob of Christians around the world. Her full statement was:

"I remain committed to Christ as always but not to being 'Christian' or to being part of Christianity. It's simply impossible for me to 'belong' to this quarrelsome, hostile, disputatious, and deservedly infamous group. I refuse to be anti-gay. I refuse to be anti-feminist. I refuse to be anti-artificial birth control. I refuse to be anti-Democrat. I refuse to be anti-secular humanism. I refuse to be anti-science. I refuse to be anti-life. In the name of Christ, I quit Christianity and being Christian. Amen."

I can certainly add my own ‘Amen’ to each and every one of her “I refuse to”s, except one. Who am I to abandon my “quarrelsome, hostile, disputatious, and deservedly infamous” brothers and sisters? While I respect her reasons for retreating to a private, devotional attachment to Christ, her language perplexes me. The best way I can frame this for myself is to pose some key questions:

First, this Jesus whose life and enduring existence are so central to both Anne Rice and me didn’t quit Judaism. Why? Clearly there was a lot about the religion of his birth that he abhorred. Legalism. Discrimination against women and anyone who was, as we say today, “differently-abled” (the blind, the lame, lepers, the poor and marginalized of his society). He railed against a religious system that put power and prestige before people and piled rule upon rule like a heavy yoke on people’s backs. He broke sacrosanct Jewish Sabbath laws when they got in the way of people’s more important need for healing, forgiveness, justice, and something to eat. Worst of all, in the eyes of some of his coreligionists, he partied too much with prostitutes, tax collectors, and other citizens of ill repute. Despite all this, he never considered for a moment being anything other than a Jew.

Jesus was born a Jew, lived his entire life as one, and died in the faith of his parents and ancestors. His earliest followers, who comprised the messianic Jesus Movement within Judaism, remained faithful to the religion of their birth until late in the first century, when it became impossible for the two groups to worship and coexist in the same neighborhood synagogues. Jesus remained a Jew despite all the problems and—in some instances—downright evil that had permeated his religion for centuries. It amazes me that Anne Rice or anyone else (including this blogger) would find it impossible to walk the walk with our brothers and sisters who, with us, represent a messy mix of ideologies and behaviors, saints and sinners.

Second, why didn’t Jesus pick better leaders for his new movement? A close look at his “top 12 draft picks” reveals either very poor character and leadership assessment or some deeper truth that contains an uncomfortable and challenging life lesson. Being the wise rabbi that Anne Rice portrays in her books, Jesus should have been smart enough to recruit the cream of the Judaic crop to carry his message of life and salvation from Palestine to the ends of the earth. 

So, who did this master of human nature and behavior pick? We get a snapshot from the Last Supper. By the way, let’s agree that it’s highly unlikely that only men attended the meal. Too bad we’re stuck with DaVinci’s image of the twelve apostles plus Jesus. In attendance were a traitor (Judas), who had already sold Jesus to his critics; Peter, who hours later would deny any association with a person by the name of Jesus; nine others who would run away at the first sign of danger; and one, John, who had the guts the next day to stand tall with the courageous women at the foot of the cross. 

Al Davis, owner of the NFL’s underachieving Oakland Raiders, could have drafted better than that. Did Jesus suspect that what came to be known as Christianity would in fact become a “quarrelsome, hostile, disputatious, and deservedly infamous group”? Of course he did. 

So, my choices are 
(1) to quit Christianity in favor of my own personal church-of-Jesus-and-me, or 
(2) to dig for a deeper truth hidden within the fickleness of human nature and God’s enduring patience and desire for reconciliation. 

One of my favorite stories is the one about two friends who were discussing religion. One said, “I’m not going to join a church until I find one that’s perfect.” The other considered the friend’s statement and said, “Okay, but there’s just one catch. As soon as you join it, it won’t be perfect anymore.”

My reading of the four gospels—and Anne Rice’s two volumes—is that Jesus made a choice to live and work and pray alongside very imperfect people within his own family, his local synagogue, and at the Temple in Jerusalem. It would never have occurred to him to abandon his community because of malice, corruption, pettiness, and injustice. These conditions were a given. He called those who would listen to him to a higher standard—even to a degree of perfection. What is even more telling for the purpose of this reflection, he made a commitment to walk that crooked journey with, not apart from them.

What all this tells me is that Jesus rejected the option of saying, “Listen up, you wretched sinners, if you ever get your (#@!*) together, you can come and look for me.”

Copyright (c) 2010 by Alfred J Garrotto 

Author's Website

The Mystery of "Hits"

Authorsden.com has served me well as a convenient repository for my novels, articles, blog posts (from this page), and poems. The site also serves as a pretty effective marketing outreach to a monthly audience of 1.4 million visitors. 


Of all the items I've archived on AuthorsDen, I've listed those that have received the most hits on my page. Why these lead the pack, I can't begin to explain. I personally would have chosen others. Here goes:

Poem: "A Wedding Toast" (10,980 hits and counting)

May the sun give light and warmth to the days ahead of you;
May the moon soften your nights with never-waning romance;
May you be each other's North Star and compass through life;
And may our God walk with you to make you strong, loving and wise.


Novel: Finding Isabella (8,400 hits and counting)

Article: "Welcome to the Family: A Parent Talks to Children About Lent" (6,513 hits and counting)


Like every writer, I do some one thing every day to get my work "out there" to the public. My lack of fame, or even name recognition, means that I have a long way to go in learning how the write the "Great American (__whatever__)" and find an audience for it, beyond the people who already love me.

(c) 2010 by Alfred J. Garrotto
All rights reserved

In a Child's Eyes

What's heaven like? The closest I've come to it was in the eyes of a 3 year old with a passion for choo-choo trains. Little trains, like miniature Thomas; big ones, like the old retiree (shown here) resting trackside at the Martinez (CA) Amtrak Station.

At my grandson's command, I hoisted him onto my lap and displayed his favorite snapshot on my wide-screen monitor.

"Can that choo-choo go on the tracks?" I asked.

"No!" He delivered his line with the enthusiasm of a child actor in a Cheerios commercial.

"And why not?"

"Too old, too tired." Together we exhaled a compassionate sigh for this once-proud locomotive that now can only watch and reminisce, as younger models race by. 

Recently, we lucky grandparents had our little guy to ourselves for two whole days. What better way to spend this time than by treating him to his first ride on a real train and a visit to the Railroad Museum in Old Sacramento? On the day before our adventure, he and I went to the station to buy our tickets. 

"Why do we need a ticket?" I asked.

No script for this dialogue, but several prompts later he got it. "No ticket, no choo-choo ride." 

In our short time at the station, an eastbound Capitol Corridor train roared in, whistles blasting, guard gates clanging as they fell. When it stopped, the engineer leaned out of the cab and waved. At first, my grandson couldn't believe the gesture was directed at him. How could such an important man--one with power to tame this mammoth beast--be waving at me? Slowly, his little arm rose and waved back.

The next morning, a silver giant's doors slid open to receive a wide-eyed little boy and two excited grandparents. For the next hour, our little traveler pressed his nose to the window, in awe of every sight that we considered ordinary--the Martinez-Benicia Bridge and the brown Carquinez Straits current lapping at its pylons, empty Solano County fields, and a ho-hum stretch of the Sacramento Valley. 

I envied my grandson's vision of the wonders to which I had become blind. I felt moved by the depth of his contemplation of the miracles of nature and human invention.  I resolved then and there to view  the world that day--and after--through his eyes.

(c) 2010 by Alfred J. Garrotto
All rights reserved

Author's Website

 

A Prayer for Renewal of the Roman Catholic Church

Lord Jesus, I lift my saddened spirit to you in humility and faith—also in great hope and trust that your Spirit is guiding my beloved Roman Catholic Church. I believe this, even as the fires of the sex abuse scandal lick around the feet of Pope Benedict XVI.

Lord, bring the triumphalism of our pope and hierarchy to its knees. Let the secrecy and protectionism that shroud your Good News and saving mission in the world end. Give light to our Holiness, Eminences, and Excellencies who have lost their way. Turn their inevitable humiliation into a grace that will purify our defective Church and heal it of its sins. May your gospel no longer be muddied by holy, but empty, words that coddle scandalous behavior in preference to virtue and fidelity. For only by acknowledging their current blindness can our leaders return to their apostolic roots and restore the Body of Christ to full health and vigor.

Lord, inspire our Holy Father to take responsibility for the current rebuke and ridicule that has fallen on our heads. Let him declare a period of “Universal Repentance,” as the King of Nineveh did, when the humbled prophet Jonah called for confession and reparation. And from the sackcloth of this top-down admission of guilt, raise up a newly baptized and cleansed Church to bask in the glory of your divine Light.

Finally, let the renewal for which I pray begin in me. I make this earnest prayer with confidence in the guiding presence of your most Holy Spirit. Amen.

What good can one person do? (When All Else Fails)

For 22 consecutive days in the spring of 1993, Sarajevo Opera cellist Vedran Smailovic dressed in his tuxedo at midday. Carrying his black cello case and a straight-backed chair, he made the perilous journey from his apartment to a downtown street. It was there that 22 of his closest friends had died when a Serbian artillery shell landed in their midst. The Bosnian War had filled local soccer fields with hastily dug gravesites. Most markers bore the death dates, 1992 or 1993.

Unable to stop the madness that had ripped apart the former Yugoslavia, Smailovic honored the memory of his friends and defied their killers by doing the only thing he was good at. Placing his chair in the middle of the street, he took out cello and bow—musician and instrument melding into a single defiant force. Eyes closed to the surrounding destruction, he rendered the mournful Adagio in G minor by Tomaso Giovanni Albinoni.

On one of those days, at the end of his lonely concert, he opened his eyes and saw the American singer and peace activist Joan Baez standing reverently at his side. They embraced, brother and sister united in a seemingly futile cause. As Smailovic packed his instrument and prepared to leave, Baez hesitated, then sat in his empty chair. Closing her eyes, she sang a heartfelt “Amazing Grace,” whose lyrics echoed Albinoni’s funereal mood. As her crystalline voice pierced the bystanders’ hearts, she blotted her tears with her sleeve.

Often, my daily tour of the world, via electronic and print media, leaves me feeling powerless to address humanity’s wide-ranging ills. Rather than yield to the despair of my littleness, I take courage from the example of those who offer what small gifts they possess to the cause of peace. Vedran Smailovic, now known worldwide as “The Cellist of Sarajevo,” played music. At any moment, he could have been targeted by snipers and gunners in the nearby hills. Playing the cello in the street was his statement that honoring life and beauty is more powerful than bullets. Joan Baez contributed by “being there” at the nadir of Sarajevo’s suffering. Powerless to do more, she offered the people her gift of song.

My daily challenge is to do something to make a positive difference in the world, even if it seems insignificant amid the deadening weight of the day’s headline stories.

A Wonderful Highway Accident

When Esther and I are planning a trip north to Arcata (Humboldt County) to visit our grandson (and his parents), I go to the library and pull three books-on-CD off the shelf. I do my best to pick something well-written and entertaining, but frankly it's a crapshoot. Whoever said you can't tell a book by its cover blurb was right. They all sound like the greatest things ever published.


In August of this year, I went through my usual routine. This time, I selected two novels, plus one nonfiction book I thought might have potential. But biblical nonfiction? As we approached the Benicia Bridge, northbound, Esther chose a novel--no surprise--and popped it into the CD player. By the time we reached Petaluma, we had both decided it was soooo boring. Trust me, that one which shall remain titleless didn't dance with the stars.


Somewhere in the Highway 101 portion of the Sonoma wine country, she inserted Disc 1 of the second novel. Clunker #2! After a couple of discs, we scrapped it. Two down and, with only the biblical nonfiction book in our entertainment bag, the several-hour drive ahead looked longer than ever.


"What the heck?" we said in desperation and opened up Abraham: A Journey to the Heart of Three Faiths by Bruce Feiler. Another loser? Not at all. For the rest of our drive to Arcata and all the way back to our home, we sat mesmerized as the youthful author related his personal quest to find out just who this man was who is claimed as common ancestor by the three great monotheistic religions: Judaism, Christianity, and Islam.


This Jewish author's excitement for his subject and his great respect for all three traditions made listening to the book an inspirational learning experience. Though a lifelong student and practitioner of religion and the Bible, I had one "Wow!" moment after another. Several times I had to turn off the CD and exclaim, "That's really good stuff!"


Since returning home, I have purchased my own copy of Abraham and am now reading Feiler's Where God Was Born: A Daring Adventure Through the Bible's Greatest Stories. My reaction to this book is the same except, instead of having a steering wheel in my hand, I carry a yellow highlighter to capture my many "Wow!" moments.


Finding author Bruce Feiler was one of the highlights of my summer, and it all resulted from an "accident" on Highway 101.

Finding Faith in a Rock

Can't help it, I'm a church mouse. What else would you expect from a cradle Catholic with parochial grade and high school, seminary college and graduate theology education? Don't answer that! I know all the horror stories. Through it all, I'm both a survivor and an embattled believer. After all these decades, when I enter my parish church, Christ the King in Pleasant Hill, California (USA), a welcoming voice inside me still says, "You're home, Al."

While visiting several Baltic countries, Germany, Poland, and Russia this past July, Esther and I toured many Christian churches and cathedrals, mostly Orthodox or Protestant (only a couple of Catholic churches made it on our itinerary). Almost all of these edifices--some quite magnificent--felt like museums and art galleries. They demonstrated little evidence of a pulsing, 21st century faith. By that I mean real people engaged as a faithful, supportive, difference-making community. With one, wonderful exception.


As soon as I entered The Rock Church in Helsinki, Finland, my heart said, "The Lord is here." Architect brothers, Timo and Tuomo Suomalainen, designed the church and built it (1968-1969) by blasting it out of solid rock. Natural light brightens the inside through 180 panes of glass between the dome and the walls.

This was the only sanctuary in which I wanted to park my spirit and breathe the faith of its resident community. I thought it had to be a Catholic Church (pardon my bias), because I had that same "I'm home" feeling I get at CTK.


Several young men were setting up for a prayer service. I asked one of them, "What denomination is this church?"


"Lutheran," he said, seeming puzzled that I had to ask.

I wasn't surprised as much as I was impressed. In the lobby/vestibule of the church, I found a table with religious articles laid out, I suppose for sale. I was unprepared for my next surprise: the selection of devotional materials. The table monitor had spread an array of rosaries across the surface, along with books and pamphlets promoting devotion to Mary, the mother of Jesus.


I couldn't help myself. I said to him, "I'm surprised to see rosaries being offered in a Lutheran church." It was his turn to look at me with puzzled curiosity. "We have great devotion to the Blessed Virgin Mary," he said with a warm smile. 

I stayed for the inspiring prayer service conducted--in English--by a young man and several musicians. About that time, Esther came to drag me away. "The bus is leaving!" she said in an all-too-familiar tone. I didn't say it, but my heart echoed the words of the 12-year-old Jesus in Luke 2:49: “Why were you looking for me? Do you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?”

What I said was a macho, "Do you really think I'd have missed that bus?"



Copyright (c) 2009 by Alfred J. Garrotto