We Both Had Dads Named Joseph

Where I live, boisterous St. Patrick's Day parties have a way of spanning most of a week, drowning out today's whispered feast of St. Joseph. Not to be deterred, I honor this day for personal reasons--the least of which is my Italian heritage, with its historical devotion to Mary's husband.This day has personal meaning because my father was Joseph, my mother Josephine. My middle name is Joseph.

The first Scripture reading in the Roman Catholic Liturgy on this day pays homage to Joseph's livelihood in the construction trade. "Are you able to build a house for me to live in?" Yahweh asks in 2 Samuel 7:5. 

It was my reflection on the gospel text from Matthew 1 that shone a light on what has been a shadowed recess in my spiritual understanding. 

 
Lord, I can imagine your dad, proud and gentle, cradling you in the crook of his well-muscled arm. Did your parents ever share with you how close they came to breaking off their betrothal because of you?

*  *  *

I never thought of it before, Lord, but I wonder if the memory of your father's death contributed to the welling of grief and the tears you shed at your friend Lazarus's tomb . . . "and Jesus wept" (John 11:35). Were you reliving the day when you stood at your newly widowed mother's side, supporting her grief, holding your own in abeyance for her sake? Did  the raising of Lazarus offer you a second chance to get it right, after responding to a different call of divine destiny, when your dad passed?

*  *  *

Lord, you learned from both your mom and dad the importance of "doing God's work God's way," as Sr. Joan Chittister puts it. What a stunning statement! It reminds me that many of us, laity and clergy, old and young, set out to do God's work in the Church, but not all of us do it "God's way," as your dad Joseph did. That is the message for me today. Show me the "Joseph way" of ministry, "God's way."


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

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For Esther on Her Birthday

A reflection on the Scripture readings
of the Roman Catholic liturgy
  for Monday, 4th Week of Lent, 2010.

The Prophet Isaiah 65:17-21
"Be glad forever and rejoice in what I create."

The Gospel of John 4:43-54
"Jesus went back to Cana of Galilee."

Lord Christ, 

 God of new,

of joy and creation.

 I praise you today
for one of your best,

my wife
my friend
and
partner,

on her birthday.

 You have blessed me

by sending her

to share my journey

through the second half of life.
 Grant us health

and length of days.

Can it be coincidence 

that today John

invites us with you 

back to Cana,

where you blessed two lovers

with abundance
of mirth-enhancing wine?

Happenstance,

that on this Lenten day

Isaiah sings in praise 
of newness and creation, 

of joy and rejoicing?

I think not.

On my daughters' behalf,

I thank you

for such a model 

of wisdom and virtue!

And grant to me 

that elusive third sight,

to see among
the miracles of life and love

your presence
even here, even now.

Amen.

Highjacked by a Great Novel

I'm always on the prowl for a great novel. Not just a good read, but one that grabs me by the collar and drags me into its pages, causing me to lose sleep but loving every lost minute of it. Most of the time, I'm left stranded on page 30; sometimes I'll hang in as far as 99. 

One of my greatest disappointments so far in this still-young year of 2010 was Barbara Kingsolver's The Lacuna. Out of respect for this great author and in memory of The Poisonwood Bible (still one of my all-time favorites), I read the whole book. I kept faith far too long that the "good part" lay just on other other side of whatever page I was reading.

Then a novel I had not yet discovered found me. My wife's bridge partners declared it a must-read, so we purchased the newly released paperback edition of Abraham Verghese's near-700 page Cutting for Stone. The author hooked me like a trout on page one and wouldn't release me until I had read his lengthy Acknowledgments and the Bibliography.  I just didn't want it to be over. 

A review in the Los Angeles Times said, "You many never leave your chair." Well, at my age that's too long. Besides my hypoglycemia won't let me skip too many meals (and I didn't marry a woman who will deliver meals to my rocking chair so I won't have to stop reading).

I don't want to give the book's wisdom and mysteries away, but since it's on the back cover blurb I can tell those who have not read Cutting yet that the main character, Marion Stone, and his brother Shiva "are twin brothers born of a secret union between a beautiful Indian nun and a brash British surgeon." All of the main and secondary characters are beautifully drawn. Wisdom abounds in their virtues and is arrived at through their vices. I am not a fast reader and I hardly ever tackle anything over 500 pages, but I swept through this book like a slow-motion speed reader. Rarely did I scan through a paragraph (and only when it exceeded my tolerance for medical terminology).

Cutting for Stone is right up there with the best novels I have read (I stop short of equating any book with Les Miserables). It surpasses another of my all-timers, Ann Patchett's Bel Canto. 

I've been debating whether or not to share something else with you, but here goes. For the last 50 pages, I was close to crying my eyes out. There. It was that good.

My Favorite Books of 2009

2009 Fiction

Christ in Concrete by Pietro Di Donato



2009 Fiction (Audio Book)

Thirteen Moons by Charles Frazier

Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen


2009 Nonfiction

Things Hidden: Scripture as Spirituality by Richard Rohr


2009 Nonfiction (Audio Book)

The Monster of Florence by Douglas Preston and Mario Spezi

Abraham: A Journey to the Heart of Three Faiths by Bruce Feiler

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.

House of Faith

Dr. Gregory House (Fox TV’s House) displayed unaccustomed bedside kindness as he sat alone with elderly patient. The brilliant doctor had come in person to deliver a fateful message: “Your condition is not only terminal, you have only hours to live.” The gentleman listened, stunned. He had hoped for better news, one of House’s patented last-minute, life-saving diagnoses. The light in his eyes dimmed, as he refocused on another kind of future. Finding his voice, he grappled for a compass, “What happens, Doctor, you know . . . after?” House looked into the dying man’s eyes and proclaimed with certitude, “Nothing.”

Like House’s patient, I too wonder what happens, “you know . . . after.” Like House, I am certain I know the answer, but my certitude is a humble one, not based on first-hand, or scientific knowledge. But neither is House’s certitude based on knowledge. He has no more evidence (defined as “something offering proof”) to support his “nothing” than I do to support my “something.” In the absence of hard evidence, both House and I are left with one and the same option: Faith. Conviction without proof. The New Testament Letter to the Hebrews (11:1) states it better than anyone, before or since: “Faith is . . . being certain of what we cannot see.”

All human beings, be they brilliant doctors or street people, share a common lot when faced with the “after” question. We are all believers, staking our claims, sight unseen. Only our conclusions differ. We are like the aerialist who makes a dramatic leap from the safety of the secured platform, believing . . . hoping, but not knowing that the partner’s timing will be perfect and that a pair of strong hands will snatch the tumbling, free-falling believer and swing both of them home to the safety of the opposite platform.

In similar fashion, we lept into birthed existence from our mothers’ wombs. Entering an alien world, we have spent our years trying to make sense of this way of being we call Life. We strive for meaning individually and at the peril of making mistakes and unhealthy decisions.

I take comfort in sharing faith with Dr. House and all who agree with him. We are one in our imperfect understanding. Neither of us knows what comes next, or whether there even is an “after.” I am no Pollyanna. Daily reports of murder, rape, greed, and the horrors of war offer ample room for doubt. “Nothing” presents itself as a welcome option by comparison. 

Yet, I take my chips and place them with confidence on the ‘Yes’ side of “anything after?” freeing myself to imagine and hope for a benevolent God who loves all human beings and waits to welcome them, no matter how they bet. 

A Little Night Music

"Sing, Papi."

I obeyed and, in a near whisper, sang the refrain of "Springtime In the Rockies." Every night for three weeks this past summer, I repeated this command performance in the pitch-dark stillness of my two-year-old grandson's bedroom.

When it's springtime in the Rockies,
I'll be coming back to you,
little sweetheart of the mountains,
with your bonny eyes so (true).
Once again I'll say I love you.
and the birds sing all the day,
when it's springtime in the Rockies,
in the Rockies far away.

Why "Springtime in the Rockies"? Call it a resurrected legacy, the only song I remember verbatim from my early childhood. Once in a while, my dad would pull out his black acoustic guitar and sing to my sisters and me. I don't know if he included the verses. All I remember is the refrain. Dad had a wider repertoire, of course, consisting mostly of Italian ballads, but "Springtime" burrowed into my brain, waiting decades for an opportunity to regift.  

Oddly, I don't remember singing "Springtime in the Rockies" to my two daughters. Somehow, this lovely melody only resurfaced, when my grandson was born. The refrain speaks of undying love and a steadfast pledge ("I'll be coming back to you") that endures across great distances and monumental obstacles. My twangy rendition seemed to soothe him, as I cradled  him in the crook of my elbow, and he nestled against my chest.  It's been our "thing" ever since, our unique point of contact. 

If I ever doubted the importance of "our song," my grandson gave me the answer one night. I sang and sang and sang the refrain, but he couldn't say goodbye to our day in the park, feeding ducks and swinging "up to the sky." Weary of repeating myself, I switched gears, making up some dumb song of my own. 

Out of the darkness came a tiny, but decisive, instruction: "No, Papi, 'Springtime.' "


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Listen to Easy Gibson's rendition on YouTube.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=glKOYiCFKdM&feature=PlayList&p=E0BD4F31E929BC19&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=56

 Copyright (c) 2009 by Alfred J. Garrotto

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

With My Own Eyes

Of the many books I read during the past year, the late Henri J. M. Nouwen's The Return of the Prodigal Son: A Story of Homecoming has had the most enduring impact. The author described how he became interested in exploring the deeper meaning of the gospel parable of the loving father and ungrateful son (Luke 15:11-32). In the course of his reflection, he came across Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn's 17th century depiction of that graced moment when the wastrel son kneels at the feet of his father to beg reconciliation. This family circle also includes an elder, "faithful" son faced with the sudden reappearance of his despised sibling.

When Nouwen learned that the original painting was on display in St. Petersburg's Hermitage State Museum, he traveled to Russia. His desire was to study the masterpiece, meditate on it, crawl inside the main characters of the scene.

To accomplish his goal, Nouwen obtained special permission to pull up a chair and sit opposite the painting. This he did for hours, under the watchful eye of a grumpy room monitor, who was unused to having her tourists linger for more than a glance and a "Wow!" before moving on to view room after room of treasures collected by Catherine the Great (1729-1796) .

While meditating, Nouwen easily identified with the weak-willed prodigal. Next he turned in spirit to the older son and found himself again in the taken-for-granted good boy. Only when the author turned his gaze to the father did he understand the essential lesson of Jesus' parable. Yes, we are like the younger son . . . the older son, too. But, our call as human beings is to be like the father, whose love is so indelible that it eliminates any possibility that his ungrateful son will be welcomed home. This unconditional love is our model and our goal.

After reading The Return of the Prodigal Son, I added the Hermitage to my list of "must see" places in the world. Little did I know the opportunity would come so soon. Desperate for passengers, Princess Cruises offered a cut-rate trip to the Baltic Sea. Seeing a two-day visit to St. Petersburg on the itinerary pushed my wife and I to sign on.

On the morning of July 9, 2009, as we headed for the Hermitage, I approached our tour guide, Natasha. "Is there any possibility that I could see Rembrandt's 'Return of the Prodigal Son'?" I asked. "Of course," she said and kept her promise. We entered the Rembrandt exhibit and there I was, staring at the floor-to-ceiling painting with my own eyes. I stood close enough to touch this 350-year-old canvas, but I'd have suffered the scorn of that no-nonsense woman in the nearby chair. And who knows what else? Access to the painting was so free that I was able to take the above photograph, as long as I didn't use flash. Too soon, our tour moved on. I envied Nouwen and the time he had to absorb not only the painting's beauty but its essence.

According to the Rembrandt Prints website (http://www.rembrandtprints.org/biography.html), "Return of the Prodigal Son is considered one of the most moving paintings in religious art because of its profound insight and sympathy for human affliction. A boy weeps as he kneels at the feet of his father who forgives him and welcomes him home." I could not have said it better.

Later, in the museum shop, I purchased the 16" x 12" print on canvas that now hangs on the wall over my workspace. I reminds me of the kind of father I am called to be--and want to be.


[See also my post of July 2, 2009, below.]

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