South Sudan's Challenge
Healing & Reconciliation
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Dhikr for the 4th Week of Advent (B)
Gospel Text: ‘And the angel said to Mary in reply, "The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. Therefore the child to be born will be called holy, the Son of God”. (Luke 1: 35)
Reflection: Jesus comes to us anew through the power of the Holy Spirit… and like Mary, our mother, in events we least expect…
DHIKR SIMPLE METHOD...
Dhikr is an Arabic word for remembrance. In the “tariqa” (the way) movement, dhikr developed into a form of prayer… It is a prayer of the heart… following three simple steps:
1. Write in one’s heart a certain passage of the Holy Writ…
2. Make the same passage ever present in one’s lips.
3. Then wait for God’s disclosure on the meaning of the passage…that interprets one’s life NOW…!
It takes a week of remembering (dhikr)…or even more days to relish the beauty of this method…
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Dhikr for 3rd Sunday of Advent (B)
Readings: Is. 61: 1-2. 10-11; 1Thes. 5: 16-24; Jn. 1: 6-8. 19-28
Text: He said: "I am 'the voice of one crying out in the desert, "Make straight the way of the Lord,"' * as Isaiah the prophet said." (John 1: 23)
Meditation: The call is to ‘make straight the way of the Lord’. Often, we miss the coming of the Lord into our lives, because of the ‘hardness’ of our hearts… TAKE HEED…!
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Third Sunday of Advent (B)
Is 61:1-2a, 10-11; 1 Thes 5:16-24; Jn 1:6-8, 19-28
Curiously, like the Synoptic gospel of Mark, the identity of John the Baptizer is established with an attribution to Isaiah. "'I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness, 'Make straight the way of the Lord,' as the prophet Isaiah said" (v.23). Like Mark this appropriation shifts attention from place to person. The passage in Second Isaiah deals not with the identity of the voice but with the significance of the wilderness: "A voice cries out: 'In the wilderness prepare the way of the LORD, make straight in the desert a highway for our God'" (40:3). However in the fourth gospel John the Baptist claims for himself, in the first person, this role of herald in a manner that suggests fulfillment consistent with a more ancient provenance.
Dhikr Prayer Method…
Dhikr is an Arabic word for remembrance. In the “tariqa” (the way) movement, dhikr developed into a form of prayer… It is a prayer of the heart… following three simple steps:
1. Write in one’s heart a certain passage of the Holy Writ…
2. Make the same passage ever present in one’s lips.
3. Then wait for God’s disclosure on the meaning of the passage…that interprets one’s life NOW…!
It takes a week of remembering (dhikr)…or even more days to relish the beauty of this method…
Saturday, December 3, 2011
The 2nd Sunday of Advent (B)
Dhikr for the 2nd Sunday of Advent (B)
(The readings - Isaiah 40:1-5, 9-11; 2 Peter 3:8-14; Mark 1:1-8)
Text: A voice of one crying out in the desert: 'Prepare the way of the Lord, make straight his paths.'" John (the) Baptist appeared in the desert proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. (Mark 1: 3-4)
Meditation: Like John the Baptizer we prepare for the coming of the Lord. He comes in events and moments we least expect… And how do we prepare for his coming into our lives…?
DHIKR SIMPLE METHOD...
Dhikr is an Arabic word for remembrance. In the “tariqa” (the way) movement, dhikr developed into a form of prayer… It is a prayer of the heart… following three simple steps:
• Write in one’s heart a certain passage of the Holy Writ…
• Make the same passage ever present in one’s lips.
• Then wait for God’s disclosure on the meaning of the passage…that interprets one’s life NOW…!
It takes a week of remembering (dhikr)…or even more days to relish the beauty of this method…
(The readings - Isaiah 40:1-5, 9-11; 2 Peter 3:8-14; Mark 1:1-8)
Text: A voice of one crying out in the desert: 'Prepare the way of the Lord, make straight his paths.'" John (the) Baptist appeared in the desert proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. (Mark 1: 3-4)
Meditation: Like John the Baptizer we prepare for the coming of the Lord. He comes in events and moments we least expect… And how do we prepare for his coming into our lives…?
DHIKR SIMPLE METHOD...
Dhikr is an Arabic word for remembrance. In the “tariqa” (the way) movement, dhikr developed into a form of prayer… It is a prayer of the heart… following three simple steps:
• Write in one’s heart a certain passage of the Holy Writ…
• Make the same passage ever present in one’s lips.
• Then wait for God’s disclosure on the meaning of the passage…that interprets one’s life NOW…!
It takes a week of remembering (dhikr)…or even more days to relish the beauty of this method…
Come, Lord Jesus, Come!
“Come, Lord Jesus” is a leap into the kind of freedom and surrender that is rightly called the virtue of hope. The theological virtue of hope is the patient and trustful willingness to live without closure, without resolution, and still be content and even happy because our Satisfaction is now at another level, and our Source is beyond ourselves.
We are able to trust that the Lord will come again, just as Jesus has come into our past, into our private dilemmas, and into our suffering world. Our Christian past then becomes our Christian prologue, and “Come, Lord Jesus” is not a cry of desperation but an assured shout of cosmic hope!
Adapted from Preparing for Christmas with Richard Rohr, p. 5
We are able to trust that the Lord will come again, just as Jesus has come into our past, into our private dilemmas, and into our suffering world. Our Christian past then becomes our Christian prologue, and “Come, Lord Jesus” is not a cry of desperation but an assured shout of cosmic hope!
Adapted from Preparing for Christmas with Richard Rohr, p. 5
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Advent Longing...
ADVENT LONGING
Pierre Teilhard de Chardin once suggested that peace and justice will come to us when we reach a high enough psychic temperature so as to burn away the things that still hold us apart. In saying this, he was drawing upon a principle in chemistry: Sometimes two elements will simply lie side by side inside a test-tube and not unite until sufficient heat is applied so as to bring them to a high enough temperature where unity can take place. That's wonderful metaphor for advent.
What is advent? Advent is about getting in touch with our longing. It's about letting our yearnings raise our psychic temperatures so that we are pushed to eventually let down our guard, hope in new ways, and risk intimacy. John of the Cross has a similar image: Intimacy with God and with each other will only take place, he says, when we reach a certain kindling temperature. For too much of our lives, he suggests, we lie around as damp, green logs inside the fire of love, waiting to come to flame but never bursting into flame because of our dampness.
Before we can burst into flame, we must first dry out and come to kindling temperature. We do that, as does a damp log inside a fire, by first sizzling for a long time in the flames so as to dry out.
How do we sizzle psychologically and spiritually? For John of the Cross, we do that through the pain of loneliness, restlessness, disquiet, anxiety, frustration, and unrequited desire. In the torment of incompleteness our psychic temperature rises so that eventually we come to kindling temperature and, there, we finally open ourselves to union in new ways. That too is an image for advent.
Advent is all about loneliness, but loneliness is a complex thing. Nobel Prize winning author, Toni Morrison describes it this way: "There is a loneliness that can be rocked. Arms crossed, knees drawn up, holding, holding on, this motion, unlike a ship's, smoothes and contains the rocker. It's an inside kind - wrapped tight like skin. Then there is a loneliness that roams. No rocking can hold it down. It is alive, on its own. A dry and spreading thing that makes the sound of one's own feet going seems to come from a far-off place."
All of us know exactly what she is describing, especially the latter type, the roaming kind of loneliness that haunts the soul and makes us, all too often, too restless to sleep at night and too uncomfortable to be inside our own skins during the day. And what's the lesson in this? What we learn from loneliness is that we are more than any moment in our lives, more than any situation we are in, more than any humiliation we have experienced, more than any rejection we have endured, and more than all the limits within which we find ourselves. Loneliness and longing take us beyond ourselves.
How? Thomas Aquinas once taught that we can attain something in one of two ways: through possession or through desire. We like to possess what we love, but that isn't often possible and it has an underside. Possession is limited, desire is infinite. Possession sets up fences, desire takes down fences. To quote Karl Rahner, only in the torment of the insufficiency of everything attainable do we know that we are more than the limits of our bodies, our present relationships, our jobs, our achievements, and the concrete situations within which we live, work, and die.
Loneliness and longing let us touch, through desire, God's ultimate design for us. In our longing, the mystics tell us, we intuit the kingdom of God. What that means is that in our desires we sense the deeper blueprint for things. And what is that?
Scripture tells us that the kingdom of God is not a matter of eating and drinking, of simple bodily pleasure, but a coming together in justice, peace, and joy in the Holy Spirit. Ultimately, that is what we ache for in our loneliness and longing: consummation, oneness, intimacy, completeness, harmony, peace, and justice.
Sometimes, of course, in our fantasies and daydreams that isn't so evident. God's kingdom seems something much loftier and more holy than what we often long for - sex, revenge, fame, power, glory, pleasure. However even in these fantasies, be they ever so crass, there is present always a deeper desire, for justice, for peace, for joy, for oneness in Christ.
Our loneliness and longing are a hunger and an energy that drive us, always, beyond the present moment. In them we do intuit the kingdom of God. Advent is about longing, about getting in touch with it, about heightening it, about letting it raise our psychic temperatures, about sizzling as damp, green logs inside the fires of intimacy, about intuiting the kingdom of God by seeing, through desire, what the world might look like if a Messiah were to come and, with us, establish justice, peace, and unity on this earth.
(Fr. Ron Rolheiser, OMI)
Pierre Teilhard de Chardin once suggested that peace and justice will come to us when we reach a high enough psychic temperature so as to burn away the things that still hold us apart. In saying this, he was drawing upon a principle in chemistry: Sometimes two elements will simply lie side by side inside a test-tube and not unite until sufficient heat is applied so as to bring them to a high enough temperature where unity can take place. That's wonderful metaphor for advent.
What is advent? Advent is about getting in touch with our longing. It's about letting our yearnings raise our psychic temperatures so that we are pushed to eventually let down our guard, hope in new ways, and risk intimacy. John of the Cross has a similar image: Intimacy with God and with each other will only take place, he says, when we reach a certain kindling temperature. For too much of our lives, he suggests, we lie around as damp, green logs inside the fire of love, waiting to come to flame but never bursting into flame because of our dampness.
Before we can burst into flame, we must first dry out and come to kindling temperature. We do that, as does a damp log inside a fire, by first sizzling for a long time in the flames so as to dry out.
How do we sizzle psychologically and spiritually? For John of the Cross, we do that through the pain of loneliness, restlessness, disquiet, anxiety, frustration, and unrequited desire. In the torment of incompleteness our psychic temperature rises so that eventually we come to kindling temperature and, there, we finally open ourselves to union in new ways. That too is an image for advent.
Advent is all about loneliness, but loneliness is a complex thing. Nobel Prize winning author, Toni Morrison describes it this way: "There is a loneliness that can be rocked. Arms crossed, knees drawn up, holding, holding on, this motion, unlike a ship's, smoothes and contains the rocker. It's an inside kind - wrapped tight like skin. Then there is a loneliness that roams. No rocking can hold it down. It is alive, on its own. A dry and spreading thing that makes the sound of one's own feet going seems to come from a far-off place."
All of us know exactly what she is describing, especially the latter type, the roaming kind of loneliness that haunts the soul and makes us, all too often, too restless to sleep at night and too uncomfortable to be inside our own skins during the day. And what's the lesson in this? What we learn from loneliness is that we are more than any moment in our lives, more than any situation we are in, more than any humiliation we have experienced, more than any rejection we have endured, and more than all the limits within which we find ourselves. Loneliness and longing take us beyond ourselves.
How? Thomas Aquinas once taught that we can attain something in one of two ways: through possession or through desire. We like to possess what we love, but that isn't often possible and it has an underside. Possession is limited, desire is infinite. Possession sets up fences, desire takes down fences. To quote Karl Rahner, only in the torment of the insufficiency of everything attainable do we know that we are more than the limits of our bodies, our present relationships, our jobs, our achievements, and the concrete situations within which we live, work, and die.
Loneliness and longing let us touch, through desire, God's ultimate design for us. In our longing, the mystics tell us, we intuit the kingdom of God. What that means is that in our desires we sense the deeper blueprint for things. And what is that?
Scripture tells us that the kingdom of God is not a matter of eating and drinking, of simple bodily pleasure, but a coming together in justice, peace, and joy in the Holy Spirit. Ultimately, that is what we ache for in our loneliness and longing: consummation, oneness, intimacy, completeness, harmony, peace, and justice.
Sometimes, of course, in our fantasies and daydreams that isn't so evident. God's kingdom seems something much loftier and more holy than what we often long for - sex, revenge, fame, power, glory, pleasure. However even in these fantasies, be they ever so crass, there is present always a deeper desire, for justice, for peace, for joy, for oneness in Christ.
Our loneliness and longing are a hunger and an energy that drive us, always, beyond the present moment. In them we do intuit the kingdom of God. Advent is about longing, about getting in touch with it, about heightening it, about letting it raise our psychic temperatures, about sizzling as damp, green logs inside the fires of intimacy, about intuiting the kingdom of God by seeing, through desire, what the world might look like if a Messiah were to come and, with us, establish justice, peace, and unity on this earth.
(Fr. Ron Rolheiser, OMI)
Saturday, November 19, 2011
The Feast of Christ the King (A)
Dhikr for the Feast of Christ the King Sunday (A)
Text: 37Then the righteous will answer him, “Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? 38And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? 39And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?” 40And the king will answer them, “Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family,* you did it to me.” (Matthew 25: 37-40)
Meditation: The final judgment in Matthew is based on what we have done or what we have failed to do for one another, especially to one of the least of these who are members of my family. CUIDATE!
DHIKR SIMPLE METHOD
1st step: Write the text or Dhikr (the Arabic word for REMEMBRANCE) in your heart.
2nd step: Let the text remain always in on your lips and mind - RECITING the text silently as often as possible...
3rd step: Be attentive to the disclosure of the meaning/s of the text in your life.
Text: 37Then the righteous will answer him, “Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? 38And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? 39And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?” 40And the king will answer them, “Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family,* you did it to me.” (Matthew 25: 37-40)
Meditation: The final judgment in Matthew is based on what we have done or what we have failed to do for one another, especially to one of the least of these who are members of my family. CUIDATE!
DHIKR SIMPLE METHOD
1st step: Write the text or Dhikr (the Arabic word for REMEMBRANCE) in your heart.
2nd step: Let the text remain always in on your lips and mind - RECITING the text silently as often as possible...
3rd step: Be attentive to the disclosure of the meaning/s of the text in your life.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Finding our loved ones after their deaths...
FINDING OUR LOVED ONES AFTER THEIR DEATHS
2004-11-21
As Christians, we believe in the "communion of saints". We believe that those who have died are not only still alive but that they are, as well, still in a real relationship with us.
But how? How do we find our loved ones after they have died?
It is interesting to note that Christianity, unlike some other religions, has never had a significant cult around dead bodies or cemeteries. We respect them, reverence them, but we do not try to mummify our dead (as the ancient Egyptians did) nor do we have much in the way of special ceremonies or religious rituals around cemeteries. There's a reason for that.
On Easter Sunday morning, Mary Magdala and some other women, armed with spices in view of embalming his dead body, went Jesus' grave. But they didn't find him there, instead they found an angel who (in effect) asked them: "Why are you looking in a cemetery for someone who is alive?" "He's not here," the angel added, "go instead to Galilee and he will meet you there."
That instruction is still valid today: When we are looking to meet our loved ones who have died we will find them in "Galilee" more so than in any cemetery. Where and what is "Galilee"?
Galilee, for Mary Magdala and the contemporaries of Jesus, was more than a place on a map, the Northern-part of Israel. It was also, and especially, the place where Jesus' spirit had flourished, the place they had first met him, the place of his key miracles, and the place where their own spirits had been stretched, enlarged, and warmed by contact with him. Galilee represented the place of their innocence, their first fervour, their initial learning, their first falling in love. Now, after Jesus' death, they were being asked to go back to that place as the privileged spot where Jesus would meet them again.
And our faith says the same thing to us: Like Mary Magdala and the early Christian believers, we can meet our deceased loved ones by going back to "Galilee", namely, by going to those places where their spirits flourished and where our own spirits were instructed, stretched, and warmed by contact with them. What, practically, does that mean? Allow me an example:
My own parents died thirty years ago and are now buried, side by side, in a little cemetery in the rural countryside where I grew up. Sometimes when I'm home, I visit their graves, say a few prayers there, and remind myself of what each of them gave me. It's nice, but it's not where I really meet my mother and father. I meet them, more deeply, in "Galilee", that is, in those places where their souls most flourished and where they took God's boundless, beautiful, colourful, life-giving energy and enfleshed it.
For example: My mother was a woman of great generosity, kind- hearted and selfless to a fault. When I go to that place, when I'm generous and kind-hearted, I feel my mother's laugh, sense her consolation, and find myself again warmed by her warmth. Conversely, at those times when I'm petty and selfish it does me little good to adorn her grave with flowers or prayers. She's there too, of course, like God's presence, faithful when we're unfaithful, but, when I'm not in her "Galilee", it's harder for her to meet me and give me what she once gave me as my mother.
It's the same with my father: His great quality was his integrity, his moral stubbornness, his refusal to compromise, his unrelenting insistence that one should always take the high road, the one less- travelled. When I prove myself his son in this, I feel his presence, his humour, his intelligence, his solid hand on my shoulder, his trustworthiness. Conversely, when I make moral compromises, he's still present, but his humour, intelligence, and trustworthy hand, can no longer nurture me in the same way.
There's both a deep truth and deep challenge in the words the angel spoke to Mary Magdala on Easter morning: "Why are you looking for a living person in a cemetery. He's not here. Go instead to Galilee and he will meet you there."
Where do we find our loved ones after they have died? Where will others find us after we have died? In "Galilee", in those places where we most give our own unique expression to God's boundless energy.
We should honour our dead and honour the cemeteries where their bodies now rest, but we meet our deceased in "Galilee", in those places where their spirits flourished and where our own souls were stretched and instructed and warmed in our contact with them. More than honouring their graves, we need to honour their lives, we need to honour the wonderful energy that they uniquely incarnated and which, in turn, nurtured, instructed, stretched, cajoled, consoled, warmed, teased, humoured, steadied, and blessed us.
When we do that our relationship with them does not just continue, it deepens.
(Fr. Ron Rolheiser, OMI)
2004-11-21
As Christians, we believe in the "communion of saints". We believe that those who have died are not only still alive but that they are, as well, still in a real relationship with us.
But how? How do we find our loved ones after they have died?
It is interesting to note that Christianity, unlike some other religions, has never had a significant cult around dead bodies or cemeteries. We respect them, reverence them, but we do not try to mummify our dead (as the ancient Egyptians did) nor do we have much in the way of special ceremonies or religious rituals around cemeteries. There's a reason for that.
On Easter Sunday morning, Mary Magdala and some other women, armed with spices in view of embalming his dead body, went Jesus' grave. But they didn't find him there, instead they found an angel who (in effect) asked them: "Why are you looking in a cemetery for someone who is alive?" "He's not here," the angel added, "go instead to Galilee and he will meet you there."
That instruction is still valid today: When we are looking to meet our loved ones who have died we will find them in "Galilee" more so than in any cemetery. Where and what is "Galilee"?
Galilee, for Mary Magdala and the contemporaries of Jesus, was more than a place on a map, the Northern-part of Israel. It was also, and especially, the place where Jesus' spirit had flourished, the place they had first met him, the place of his key miracles, and the place where their own spirits had been stretched, enlarged, and warmed by contact with him. Galilee represented the place of their innocence, their first fervour, their initial learning, their first falling in love. Now, after Jesus' death, they were being asked to go back to that place as the privileged spot where Jesus would meet them again.
And our faith says the same thing to us: Like Mary Magdala and the early Christian believers, we can meet our deceased loved ones by going back to "Galilee", namely, by going to those places where their spirits flourished and where our own spirits were instructed, stretched, and warmed by contact with them. What, practically, does that mean? Allow me an example:
My own parents died thirty years ago and are now buried, side by side, in a little cemetery in the rural countryside where I grew up. Sometimes when I'm home, I visit their graves, say a few prayers there, and remind myself of what each of them gave me. It's nice, but it's not where I really meet my mother and father. I meet them, more deeply, in "Galilee", that is, in those places where their souls most flourished and where they took God's boundless, beautiful, colourful, life-giving energy and enfleshed it.
For example: My mother was a woman of great generosity, kind- hearted and selfless to a fault. When I go to that place, when I'm generous and kind-hearted, I feel my mother's laugh, sense her consolation, and find myself again warmed by her warmth. Conversely, at those times when I'm petty and selfish it does me little good to adorn her grave with flowers or prayers. She's there too, of course, like God's presence, faithful when we're unfaithful, but, when I'm not in her "Galilee", it's harder for her to meet me and give me what she once gave me as my mother.
It's the same with my father: His great quality was his integrity, his moral stubbornness, his refusal to compromise, his unrelenting insistence that one should always take the high road, the one less- travelled. When I prove myself his son in this, I feel his presence, his humour, his intelligence, his solid hand on my shoulder, his trustworthiness. Conversely, when I make moral compromises, he's still present, but his humour, intelligence, and trustworthy hand, can no longer nurture me in the same way.
There's both a deep truth and deep challenge in the words the angel spoke to Mary Magdala on Easter morning: "Why are you looking for a living person in a cemetery. He's not here. Go instead to Galilee and he will meet you there."
Where do we find our loved ones after they have died? Where will others find us after we have died? In "Galilee", in those places where we most give our own unique expression to God's boundless energy.
We should honour our dead and honour the cemeteries where their bodies now rest, but we meet our deceased in "Galilee", in those places where their spirits flourished and where our own souls were stretched and instructed and warmed in our contact with them. More than honouring their graves, we need to honour their lives, we need to honour the wonderful energy that they uniquely incarnated and which, in turn, nurtured, instructed, stretched, cajoled, consoled, warmed, teased, humoured, steadied, and blessed us.
When we do that our relationship with them does not just continue, it deepens.
(Fr. Ron Rolheiser, OMI)
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Communion of Saints
PRIVILEGED COMMUNICATION WITHIN THE COMMUNION OF SAINTS
One of our wonderful Christian doctrines is our belief in the communion of the saints. To believe in the communion of saints is to believe that we can still tend to unfinished business in our relationships, even after death. We can still talk to those who have died and say the words of love, forgiveness, gratitude, and regret that ideally we should have spoken earlier.
All of us have experienced situations where, inside of a family, a friendship circle, community, or group of colleagues, a bitter difference grows up and festers so that eventually there is an unresolvable tension. Things have happened that can no longer be undone. Then someone in the family or community dies and that death changes everything.
In a strange way the death brings with it a peace, a clarity, and a charity which, prior to it, were not possible. Why is this? It's not simply because the death has changed the chemistry of the group or because, the source of the tension or bitterness has died. It happens because, as Luke teaches in his Passion narrative, death can wash things clean. Death releases forgiveness, in the same way as Jesus forgave the good thief upon the cross as he died.
This can be an immense consolation to us. What we can't bring to wholeness in this life can, if we are attentive to the communion of saints, be completed afterwards. We still have communication, privileged communication, with our loved ones after death. Among the marvels of that lies the fact that we still have a chance to fix the things, after death, that we were powerless to mend before death took a loved one away.
(Source: Fr. Ron Rolheiser, OMI)
One of our wonderful Christian doctrines is our belief in the communion of the saints. To believe in the communion of saints is to believe that we can still tend to unfinished business in our relationships, even after death. We can still talk to those who have died and say the words of love, forgiveness, gratitude, and regret that ideally we should have spoken earlier.
All of us have experienced situations where, inside of a family, a friendship circle, community, or group of colleagues, a bitter difference grows up and festers so that eventually there is an unresolvable tension. Things have happened that can no longer be undone. Then someone in the family or community dies and that death changes everything.
In a strange way the death brings with it a peace, a clarity, and a charity which, prior to it, were not possible. Why is this? It's not simply because the death has changed the chemistry of the group or because, the source of the tension or bitterness has died. It happens because, as Luke teaches in his Passion narrative, death can wash things clean. Death releases forgiveness, in the same way as Jesus forgave the good thief upon the cross as he died.
This can be an immense consolation to us. What we can't bring to wholeness in this life can, if we are attentive to the communion of saints, be completed afterwards. We still have communication, privileged communication, with our loved ones after death. Among the marvels of that lies the fact that we still have a chance to fix the things, after death, that we were powerless to mend before death took a loved one away.
(Source: Fr. Ron Rolheiser, OMI)
Saturday, October 22, 2011
30th Sunday in Ordinary Time (A)
Dhikr for the 30th Sunday of the Ordinary Time (A)
Text: "Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?"He said to him, "You shall love the Lord, your God, with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the greatest and the first commandment. The second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. The whole law and the prophets depend on these two commandments." (Matthew 22:36-40)
Meditation: The Love of God and Love of Neighbor remain the basic ethical measure of our words, thoughts and actions. We should not behave and think like the Pharisees and Scribes who multiply laws yet are lacking in the real measure that counts…
DHIKR SIMPLE METHOD
Dhikr is an Arabic word which means REMEMBRANCE.
1st step: Write the text in your heart.
2nd step: Let the text remain always in on your lips and mind - RECITING the text silently as often as possible...
3rd step: Be attentive to the disclosure of the meaning/s of the text in your life.
Text: "Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?"He said to him, "You shall love the Lord, your God, with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the greatest and the first commandment. The second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. The whole law and the prophets depend on these two commandments." (Matthew 22:36-40)
Meditation: The Love of God and Love of Neighbor remain the basic ethical measure of our words, thoughts and actions. We should not behave and think like the Pharisees and Scribes who multiply laws yet are lacking in the real measure that counts…
DHIKR SIMPLE METHOD
Dhikr is an Arabic word which means REMEMBRANCE.
1st step: Write the text in your heart.
2nd step: Let the text remain always in on your lips and mind - RECITING the text silently as often as possible...
3rd step: Be attentive to the disclosure of the meaning/s of the text in your life.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
29th Sunday in Ordinary Time (A)
Dhikr for the 29th Sunday of the Ordinary Time (A)
Text: He said to them, "Whose image is this and whose inscription?" They replied, "Caesar's." At that he said to them, "Then repay to Caesar what belongs to Caesar and to God what belongs to God." (Matthew 22: 20-21)
Meditation: The usual distinction of what is God’s and Caesar’s usually comes to mind with the above passages. But the real challenge posed by the Gospel is to discern God’s will in our life and act truthfully according to His will…
DHIKR SIMPLE METHOD
Dhikr is an Arabic word which means REMEMBRANCE.
1st step: Write the text in your heart.
2nd step: Let the text remain always in on your lips and mind - RECITING the text silently as often as possible...
3rd step: Be attentive to the disclosure of the meaning/s of the text in your life.
Text: He said to them, "Whose image is this and whose inscription?" They replied, "Caesar's." At that he said to them, "Then repay to Caesar what belongs to Caesar and to God what belongs to God." (Matthew 22: 20-21)
Meditation: The usual distinction of what is God’s and Caesar’s usually comes to mind with the above passages. But the real challenge posed by the Gospel is to discern God’s will in our life and act truthfully according to His will…
DHIKR SIMPLE METHOD
Dhikr is an Arabic word which means REMEMBRANCE.
1st step: Write the text in your heart.
2nd step: Let the text remain always in on your lips and mind - RECITING the text silently as often as possible...
3rd step: Be attentive to the disclosure of the meaning/s of the text in your life.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
28th Sunday in Ordinary Time (A)
Dhikr for the 28th Sunday of the Ordinary Time (A)
Text: 'The feast is ready, but those who were invited were not worthy to come. Go out, therefore, into the main roads and invite to the feast whomever you find.' (Matthew 22: 8-9)
Meditation: The Parable tells us of God’s invitation to ALL! One caveat though… we are so busy with so many things thus finding ourselves NOT WORTHY TO COME… BEWARE!
DHIKR SIMPLE METHOD
Dhikr is an Arabic word which means REMEMBRANCE.
1st step: Write the text in your heart.
2nd step: Let the text remain always in on your lips and mind - RECITING the text silently as often as possible...
3rd step: Be attentive to the disclosure of the meaning/s of the text in your life.
Text: 'The feast is ready, but those who were invited were not worthy to come. Go out, therefore, into the main roads and invite to the feast whomever you find.' (Matthew 22: 8-9)
Meditation: The Parable tells us of God’s invitation to ALL! One caveat though… we are so busy with so many things thus finding ourselves NOT WORTHY TO COME… BEWARE!
DHIKR SIMPLE METHOD
Dhikr is an Arabic word which means REMEMBRANCE.
1st step: Write the text in your heart.
2nd step: Let the text remain always in on your lips and mind - RECITING the text silently as often as possible...
3rd step: Be attentive to the disclosure of the meaning/s of the text in your life.
A Prodigal God
A PRODIGAL GOD
by Fr. Ron Rolheiser, OMI
2006-04-30
A couple of years ago, Barbara Kingsolver wrote a book entitled Prodigal Summer. It tells the story of young woman who got pregnant during a summer within which everything seemed to be dangerously fertile. From the plants, through the insects, through the animals, to the people, everything seemed to be teeming with fecundity, overactive, overabundant in seed. Life seemed to be bursting forth everywhere. The title of the book is good metaphor for what she describes, a summer overabundant in fertility.
Nature is like that, teeming with everything, prodigal, fertile, overabundant, wasteful. Why else do we have 90% more brain cells than we need and why else is nature scattering billions of seeds, of virtually everything, all over the planet every second?
And if life is so prodigal, what does this say about God, its author?
God, as we see in both nature and in scripture (and know from experience), is over-generous, over-lavish, over-extravagant, over- prodigious, over-rich, and over-patient. If nature, scripture, and experience are to be believed, God is the absolute antithesis of everything that is stingy, miserly, frugal, narrowly calculating, or sparing in what it doles out. God is prodigal.
Dictionaries define "prodigal" as "wastefully extravagant and lavishly abundant." That certainly describes the God that Jesus incarnates and reveals.
We see this in the parable of the Sower. God, the sower, goes out to sow and he scatters his seed generously, almost wastefully, everywhere - on the road, among the rocks, among the thorns, on bad soil, and on rich soil. No farmer would ever do this. Who would waste seed on soil that can never produce a harvest? God, it seems, doesn't ask that question but simply keeps scattering his seed everywhere, over-generously, without calculating whether it is a good investment or not in terms of return. And, it seems, God has an infinite number of seeds to scatter, perpetually, everywhere. God is prodigious beyond imagination.
Among other things, this speaks of God's infinite riches, love, and patience. For us, there is both a huge challenge and a huge consolation in that. The challenge, of course, is to respond to the infinite number of invitations that God scatters on our path from minute to minute. The consolation is that, no matter how many of God's invitations we ignore, there will always be an infinite number of others. No matter how many we've already ignored or turned down, there are new ones awaiting us each minute. When we've gone through 39 days of lent without praying or changing our lives, there's still a 40th day to respond. When we've ignored a thousand invitations, there's still another one waiting. God is prodigal, so are the chances God gives us.
Sr. Margaret Halaska once captured this wonderfully in a poem she entitled, Covenant:
The Father knocks at my door, seeking a home for his son:
Rent is cheap, I say
I don't want to rent. I want to buy, says God.
I'm not sure I want to sell,
but you might come in to look around.
I think I will, says God.
I might let you have a room or two.
I like it, says God. I'll take the two.
You might decide to give me more some day.
I can wait, says God.
I'd like to give you more,
but it's a bit difficult. I need some space for me.
I know, says God, but I'll wait. I like what I see.
Hm, maybe I can let you have another room.
I really don't need that much.
Thanks, says God, I'll take it. I like what I see.
I'd like to give you the whole house
but I'm not sure -
Think on it, says God. I wouldn't put you out.
Your house would be mine and my son would live in it.
You'd have more space than you'd ever had before.
I don't understand at all.
I know, says God, but I can't tell you about that.
You'll have to discover it for yourself.
That can only happen if you let him have the whole house.
A bit risky, I say.
Yes, says God, but try me.
I'm not sure -
I'll let you know.
I can wait, says God. I like what I see.
If we look back on our lives and are truly honest, we have to admit that of all the invitations that God has sent us, we've probably accepted and acted on only a fraction of them. There have been countless times we've turned away from an invitation. For every invitation to maturity we've accepted, we've probably turned down a hundred. But that's the beauty and wonder of God's richness. God is not a petty creator and creation, itself, is not a cheap machine with barely enough energy and resources to keep it going. God and nature are prodigal. That's plain everywhere. Millions and millions of life-giving seeds blow everywhere in the world and we need only to pick up a few to become pregnant, fecund, capable of newness, maturity, and of producing life.
by Fr. Ron Rolheiser, OMI
2006-04-30
A couple of years ago, Barbara Kingsolver wrote a book entitled Prodigal Summer. It tells the story of young woman who got pregnant during a summer within which everything seemed to be dangerously fertile. From the plants, through the insects, through the animals, to the people, everything seemed to be teeming with fecundity, overactive, overabundant in seed. Life seemed to be bursting forth everywhere. The title of the book is good metaphor for what she describes, a summer overabundant in fertility.
Nature is like that, teeming with everything, prodigal, fertile, overabundant, wasteful. Why else do we have 90% more brain cells than we need and why else is nature scattering billions of seeds, of virtually everything, all over the planet every second?
And if life is so prodigal, what does this say about God, its author?
God, as we see in both nature and in scripture (and know from experience), is over-generous, over-lavish, over-extravagant, over- prodigious, over-rich, and over-patient. If nature, scripture, and experience are to be believed, God is the absolute antithesis of everything that is stingy, miserly, frugal, narrowly calculating, or sparing in what it doles out. God is prodigal.
Dictionaries define "prodigal" as "wastefully extravagant and lavishly abundant." That certainly describes the God that Jesus incarnates and reveals.
We see this in the parable of the Sower. God, the sower, goes out to sow and he scatters his seed generously, almost wastefully, everywhere - on the road, among the rocks, among the thorns, on bad soil, and on rich soil. No farmer would ever do this. Who would waste seed on soil that can never produce a harvest? God, it seems, doesn't ask that question but simply keeps scattering his seed everywhere, over-generously, without calculating whether it is a good investment or not in terms of return. And, it seems, God has an infinite number of seeds to scatter, perpetually, everywhere. God is prodigious beyond imagination.
Among other things, this speaks of God's infinite riches, love, and patience. For us, there is both a huge challenge and a huge consolation in that. The challenge, of course, is to respond to the infinite number of invitations that God scatters on our path from minute to minute. The consolation is that, no matter how many of God's invitations we ignore, there will always be an infinite number of others. No matter how many we've already ignored or turned down, there are new ones awaiting us each minute. When we've gone through 39 days of lent without praying or changing our lives, there's still a 40th day to respond. When we've ignored a thousand invitations, there's still another one waiting. God is prodigal, so are the chances God gives us.
Sr. Margaret Halaska once captured this wonderfully in a poem she entitled, Covenant:
The Father knocks at my door, seeking a home for his son:
Rent is cheap, I say
I don't want to rent. I want to buy, says God.
I'm not sure I want to sell,
but you might come in to look around.
I think I will, says God.
I might let you have a room or two.
I like it, says God. I'll take the two.
You might decide to give me more some day.
I can wait, says God.
I'd like to give you more,
but it's a bit difficult. I need some space for me.
I know, says God, but I'll wait. I like what I see.
Hm, maybe I can let you have another room.
I really don't need that much.
Thanks, says God, I'll take it. I like what I see.
I'd like to give you the whole house
but I'm not sure -
Think on it, says God. I wouldn't put you out.
Your house would be mine and my son would live in it.
You'd have more space than you'd ever had before.
I don't understand at all.
I know, says God, but I can't tell you about that.
You'll have to discover it for yourself.
That can only happen if you let him have the whole house.
A bit risky, I say.
Yes, says God, but try me.
I'm not sure -
I'll let you know.
I can wait, says God. I like what I see.
If we look back on our lives and are truly honest, we have to admit that of all the invitations that God has sent us, we've probably accepted and acted on only a fraction of them. There have been countless times we've turned away from an invitation. For every invitation to maturity we've accepted, we've probably turned down a hundred. But that's the beauty and wonder of God's richness. God is not a petty creator and creation, itself, is not a cheap machine with barely enough energy and resources to keep it going. God and nature are prodigal. That's plain everywhere. Millions and millions of life-giving seeds blow everywhere in the world and we need only to pick up a few to become pregnant, fecund, capable of newness, maturity, and of producing life.
Monday, September 5, 2011
The God who embraced me...
The God Who Embraced Me
by John W. Fountain
“It wasn't until many years later, standing over my father's grave for a long overdue conversation, that my tears flowed. I told him about the man I had become.”
I believe in God. Not that cosmic, intangible spirit-in-the-sky that Mama told me as a little boy "always was and always will be." But the God who embraced me when Daddy disappeared from our lives -- from my life at age four -- the night police led him away from our front door, down the stairs in handcuffs.
The God who warmed me when we could see our breath inside our freezing apartment, where the gas was disconnected in the dead of another wind-whipped Chicago winter, and there was no food, little hope and no hot water.
The God who held my hand when I witnessed boys in my 'hood swallowed by the elements, by death and by hopelessness; who claimed me when I felt like "no-man's son," amid the absence of any man to wrap his arms around me and tell me, "everything's going to be okay," to speak proudly of me, to call me son.
I believe in God, God the Father, embodied in his Son Jesus Christ. The God who allowed me to feel His presence -- whether by the warmth that filled my belly like hot chocolate on a cold afternoon, or that voice, whenever I found myself in the tempest of life's storms, telling me (even when I was told I was "nothing") that I was something, that I was His, and that even amid the desertion of the man who gave me his name and DNA and little else, I might find in Him sustenance.
I believe in God, the God who I have come to know as father, as Abba -- Daddy.
I always envied boys I saw walking hand-in-hand with their fathers. I thirsted for the conversations fathers and sons have about the birds and the bees, or about nothing at all -- simply feeling his breath, heartbeat, presence. As a boy, I used to sit on the front porch watching the cars roll by, imagining that one day one would park and the man getting out would be my daddy. But it never happened.
When I was 18, I could find no tears that Alabama winter's evening in January 1979 as I stood finally -- face to face -- with my father lying cold in a casket, his eyes sealed, his heart no longer beating, his breath forever stilled. Killed in a car accident, he died drunk, leaving me hobbled by the sorrow of years of fatherlessness.
By then, it had been years since Mama had summoned the police to our apartment that night, fearing that Daddy might hurt her -- hit her -- again. Finally, his alcoholism consumed what good there was of him until it swallowed him whole.
It wasn't until many years later, standing over my father's grave for a long overdue conversation, that my tears flowed. I told him about the man I had become. I told him about how much I wished he had been in my life. And I realized fully that in his absence, I had found another. Or that He -- God, the Father, God, my Father -- had found me.
(From: All Things Considered, November 28, 2005)
by John W. Fountain
“It wasn't until many years later, standing over my father's grave for a long overdue conversation, that my tears flowed. I told him about the man I had become.”
I believe in God. Not that cosmic, intangible spirit-in-the-sky that Mama told me as a little boy "always was and always will be." But the God who embraced me when Daddy disappeared from our lives -- from my life at age four -- the night police led him away from our front door, down the stairs in handcuffs.
The God who warmed me when we could see our breath inside our freezing apartment, where the gas was disconnected in the dead of another wind-whipped Chicago winter, and there was no food, little hope and no hot water.
The God who held my hand when I witnessed boys in my 'hood swallowed by the elements, by death and by hopelessness; who claimed me when I felt like "no-man's son," amid the absence of any man to wrap his arms around me and tell me, "everything's going to be okay," to speak proudly of me, to call me son.
I believe in God, God the Father, embodied in his Son Jesus Christ. The God who allowed me to feel His presence -- whether by the warmth that filled my belly like hot chocolate on a cold afternoon, or that voice, whenever I found myself in the tempest of life's storms, telling me (even when I was told I was "nothing") that I was something, that I was His, and that even amid the desertion of the man who gave me his name and DNA and little else, I might find in Him sustenance.
I believe in God, the God who I have come to know as father, as Abba -- Daddy.
I always envied boys I saw walking hand-in-hand with their fathers. I thirsted for the conversations fathers and sons have about the birds and the bees, or about nothing at all -- simply feeling his breath, heartbeat, presence. As a boy, I used to sit on the front porch watching the cars roll by, imagining that one day one would park and the man getting out would be my daddy. But it never happened.
When I was 18, I could find no tears that Alabama winter's evening in January 1979 as I stood finally -- face to face -- with my father lying cold in a casket, his eyes sealed, his heart no longer beating, his breath forever stilled. Killed in a car accident, he died drunk, leaving me hobbled by the sorrow of years of fatherlessness.
By then, it had been years since Mama had summoned the police to our apartment that night, fearing that Daddy might hurt her -- hit her -- again. Finally, his alcoholism consumed what good there was of him until it swallowed him whole.
It wasn't until many years later, standing over my father's grave for a long overdue conversation, that my tears flowed. I told him about the man I had become. I told him about how much I wished he had been in my life. And I realized fully that in his absence, I had found another. Or that He -- God, the Father, God, my Father -- had found me.
(From: All Things Considered, November 28, 2005)
Monday, August 1, 2011
A Consistent Ethic of Life
A CONSISTENT ETHIC OF LIFE
The late Cardinal Bernardin of Chicago was the first to publicly call for a “consistent ethic of life” in the late 1970s. He made it clear that until the church starts being honest and defending all life from beginning to end, it cannot call itself “pro-life.” Otherwise, the very moral principle falls apart. All policies that needlessly destroy life—abortion, war, capital punishment, euthanasia, and the selfish destruction of the earth and its creatures—are all anti-life and against the fifth commandment, “Thou shalt not kill.”
As you can see, we have a lot of time to make up for, and a lot of moral maturing to do before we can match the clear nonviolent teaching and example of Jesus himself (see Matthew 5:38-48).
So we not only need to be consistent between individual morality and social morality, but we need to be consistent between all of the various life issues. It is a “seamless garment,” as Cardinal Bernardin brilliantly called it. Such a theology has teeth and real authority behind it and does not just pander to the cultural values of either the Left or the Right. Like the Gospel itself, it challenges both sides and pleases nobody.
(Adapted from Richard Rohr's Spiral of Violence: The World, the Flesh, and the Devil)
The late Cardinal Bernardin of Chicago was the first to publicly call for a “consistent ethic of life” in the late 1970s. He made it clear that until the church starts being honest and defending all life from beginning to end, it cannot call itself “pro-life.” Otherwise, the very moral principle falls apart. All policies that needlessly destroy life—abortion, war, capital punishment, euthanasia, and the selfish destruction of the earth and its creatures—are all anti-life and against the fifth commandment, “Thou shalt not kill.”
As you can see, we have a lot of time to make up for, and a lot of moral maturing to do before we can match the clear nonviolent teaching and example of Jesus himself (see Matthew 5:38-48).
So we not only need to be consistent between individual morality and social morality, but we need to be consistent between all of the various life issues. It is a “seamless garment,” as Cardinal Bernardin brilliantly called it. Such a theology has teeth and real authority behind it and does not just pander to the cultural values of either the Left or the Right. Like the Gospel itself, it challenges both sides and pleases nobody.
(Adapted from Richard Rohr's Spiral of Violence: The World, the Flesh, and the Devil)
Saturday, July 30, 2011
18th Sunday in Ordinary Time (A)
Dhikr for the 18th Sunday in Ordinary Time (A)
Text: “There is no need for them to disperse. Give them something to eat yourselves.” (Mt. 14: 16)
Meditation: CHARITY AND SHARING ARE NOT CARRIED OUT BY PROXY. WE LIVE & DO THEM OURSELVES…
DHIKR SIMPLE METHOD...
1st step: Write the Dhikr (the Arabic word for REMEMBRANCE) in your heart.
2nd step: Let the Dhikr remain always in on your lips and mind - RECITING the Dhikr silently as often as possible...
3rd step: Be attentive to the disclosure of the meaning/s of the Dhikr in your life.
Text: “There is no need for them to disperse. Give them something to eat yourselves.” (Mt. 14: 16)
Meditation: CHARITY AND SHARING ARE NOT CARRIED OUT BY PROXY. WE LIVE & DO THEM OURSELVES…
DHIKR SIMPLE METHOD...
1st step: Write the Dhikr (the Arabic word for REMEMBRANCE) in your heart.
2nd step: Let the Dhikr remain always in on your lips and mind - RECITING the Dhikr silently as often as possible...
3rd step: Be attentive to the disclosure of the meaning/s of the Dhikr in your life.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
14th Sunday in Ordinary Time (A)
Dhikr for the 14th Sunday in Ordinary Time (A)
Text: “… hiding these things from the learned and the clever and revealing them to mere children." (Mt. 11 25)
Meditation: The knowledge and the experience of God are gifts… We continue to pray for this gift…
DHIKR SIMPLE METHOD...
1st step: Write the Dhikr in your heart.
2nd step: Let the Dhikr remain always in on your lips and mind - RECITING the dihkr silently as often as possible...
3rd step: Be attentive to the disclosure of the meaning/s of the Dhikr in your life.
Text: “… hiding these things from the learned and the clever and revealing them to mere children." (Mt. 11 25)
Meditation: The knowledge and the experience of God are gifts… We continue to pray for this gift…
DHIKR SIMPLE METHOD...
1st step: Write the Dhikr in your heart.
2nd step: Let the Dhikr remain always in on your lips and mind - RECITING the dihkr silently as often as possible...
3rd step: Be attentive to the disclosure of the meaning/s of the Dhikr in your life.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
The Feast of Corpus Christi
What signs would convince other people that we are the Body of Christ? St. Paul speaks of we becoming “one bread, we who are many are one body, for we all partake of the one bread" (1 Corinthians 10:17).
When the rich are not sharing with the poor, nor are the vulnerable being assisted. The deepest meaning of the Eucharist is denied!
St. Paul challenges us to become the food we partake: the Body of Christ.
When the rich are not sharing with the poor, nor are the vulnerable being assisted. The deepest meaning of the Eucharist is denied!
St. Paul challenges us to become the food we partake: the Body of Christ.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
The Risen Lord Breathes on the Disciples...
The Risen Lord breathes on them...
The Gospel of John (19:20-23) describes another way the Holy Spirit is given to the apostles: the risen Jesus breathing on the apostles to impart the Holy Spirit.
The power of the Spirit not only authorizes, but also empowers the apostles to forgive and to retain sins.
Jesus formally sends out to the world his apostles, as he had been sent to the world by the Father.
Jesus' breathing on the apostles huddled in the Upper Room recalls Genesis 2:7, where God breathed on the first man and gave him life; just as Adam's life came from God, so now the disciples' new spiritual life comes from Jesus.
(Source: Fr. Rosica, CSB)
The Gospel of John (19:20-23) describes another way the Holy Spirit is given to the apostles: the risen Jesus breathing on the apostles to impart the Holy Spirit.
The power of the Spirit not only authorizes, but also empowers the apostles to forgive and to retain sins.
Jesus formally sends out to the world his apostles, as he had been sent to the world by the Father.
Jesus' breathing on the apostles huddled in the Upper Room recalls Genesis 2:7, where God breathed on the first man and gave him life; just as Adam's life came from God, so now the disciples' new spiritual life comes from Jesus.
(Source: Fr. Rosica, CSB)
Friday, June 10, 2011
The God who embraced me...
Folks,
Peace!
Simply sharing this short story below as we prepare for the Feast of Pentecost,...
Jun Mercado, OMI
----
The God Who Embraced Me
by John W. Fountain
“It wasn't until many years later, standing over my father's grave for a long overdue conversation that my tears flowed. I told him about the man I had become.”
I believe in God. Not that cosmic, intangible spirit-in-the-sky that Mama told me as a little boy "always was and always will be." But the God who embraced me when Daddy disappeared from our lives -- from my life at age four -- the night police led him away from our front door, down the stairs in handcuffs.
The God who warmed me when we could see our breath inside our freezing apartment, where the gas was disconnected in the dead of another wind-whipped Chicago winter, and there was no food, little hope and no hot water.
The God who held my hand when I witnessed boys in my 'hood swallowed by the elements, by death and by hopelessness; who claimed me when I felt like "no-man's son," amid the absence of any man to wrap his arms around me and tell me, "everything's going to be okay," to speak proudly of me, to call me son.
I believe in God, God the Father, embodied in his Son Jesus Christ. The God who allowed me to feel His presence -- whether by the warmth that filled my belly like hot chocolate on a cold afternoon, or that voice, whenever I found myself in the tempest of life's storms, telling me (even when I was told I was "nothing") that I was something, that I was His, and that even amid the desertion of the man who gave me his name and DNA and little else, I might find in Him sustenance.
I believe in God, the God who I have come to know as father, as Abba -- Daddy.
I always envied boys I saw walking hand-in-hand with their fathers. I thirsted for the conversations fathers and sons have about the birds and the bees, or about nothing at all -- simply feeling his breath, heartbeat, presence. As a boy, I used to sit on the front porch watching the cars roll by, imagining that one day one would park and the man getting out would be my daddy. But it never happened.
When I was 18, I could find no tears that Alabama winter's evening in January 1979 as I stood finally -- face to face -- with my father lying cold in a casket, his eyes sealed, his heart no longer beating, his breath forever stilled. Killed in a car accident, he died drunk, leaving me hobbled by the sorrow of years of fatherlessness.
By then, it had been years since Mama had summoned the police to our apartment that night, fearing that Daddy might hurt her -- hit her -- again. Finally, his alcoholism consumed what good there was of him until it swallowed him whole.
It wasn't until many years later, standing over my father's grave for a long overdue conversation that my tears flowed. I told him about the man I had become. I told him about how much I wished he had been in my life. And I realized fully that in his absence, I had found another. Or that He -- God, the Father, God, my Father -- had found me.
Source: All Things Considered, November 28, 2005
Peace!
Simply sharing this short story below as we prepare for the Feast of Pentecost,...
Jun Mercado, OMI
----
The God Who Embraced Me
by John W. Fountain
“It wasn't until many years later, standing over my father's grave for a long overdue conversation that my tears flowed. I told him about the man I had become.”
I believe in God. Not that cosmic, intangible spirit-in-the-sky that Mama told me as a little boy "always was and always will be." But the God who embraced me when Daddy disappeared from our lives -- from my life at age four -- the night police led him away from our front door, down the stairs in handcuffs.
The God who warmed me when we could see our breath inside our freezing apartment, where the gas was disconnected in the dead of another wind-whipped Chicago winter, and there was no food, little hope and no hot water.
The God who held my hand when I witnessed boys in my 'hood swallowed by the elements, by death and by hopelessness; who claimed me when I felt like "no-man's son," amid the absence of any man to wrap his arms around me and tell me, "everything's going to be okay," to speak proudly of me, to call me son.
I believe in God, God the Father, embodied in his Son Jesus Christ. The God who allowed me to feel His presence -- whether by the warmth that filled my belly like hot chocolate on a cold afternoon, or that voice, whenever I found myself in the tempest of life's storms, telling me (even when I was told I was "nothing") that I was something, that I was His, and that even amid the desertion of the man who gave me his name and DNA and little else, I might find in Him sustenance.
I believe in God, the God who I have come to know as father, as Abba -- Daddy.
I always envied boys I saw walking hand-in-hand with their fathers. I thirsted for the conversations fathers and sons have about the birds and the bees, or about nothing at all -- simply feeling his breath, heartbeat, presence. As a boy, I used to sit on the front porch watching the cars roll by, imagining that one day one would park and the man getting out would be my daddy. But it never happened.
When I was 18, I could find no tears that Alabama winter's evening in January 1979 as I stood finally -- face to face -- with my father lying cold in a casket, his eyes sealed, his heart no longer beating, his breath forever stilled. Killed in a car accident, he died drunk, leaving me hobbled by the sorrow of years of fatherlessness.
By then, it had been years since Mama had summoned the police to our apartment that night, fearing that Daddy might hurt her -- hit her -- again. Finally, his alcoholism consumed what good there was of him until it swallowed him whole.
It wasn't until many years later, standing over my father's grave for a long overdue conversation that my tears flowed. I told him about the man I had become. I told him about how much I wished he had been in my life. And I realized fully that in his absence, I had found another. Or that He -- God, the Father, God, my Father -- had found me.
Source: All Things Considered, November 28, 2005
The Feast of the Pentecost
Dhikr for Pentecost Sunday (B)
Text: “Jesus breathed on them and said to them, "Receive the Holy Spirit. Whose sins you forgive are forgiven them, and whose sins you retain are retained." (John 20: 22-23)
Meditation: We have not received the spirit of slavery and live in fear, but the spirit that makes us sons and daughters of God and empowers us to call God – Abba!
DHIKR SIMPLE METHOD...
Dhikr is an Arabic word for remembrance. In the “tariqa” (the way) movement, dhikr developed into a form of prayer… It is a prayer of the heart… following three simple steps:
1. Write in one’s heart a certain passage of the Holy Writ…
2. Make the same passage ever present in one’s lips.
3. Then wait for God’s disclosure on the meaning of the passage…that interprets one’s life NOW…!
It takes a week of remembering (dhikr)…or even more days to relish the beauty of this method…
Text: “Jesus breathed on them and said to them, "Receive the Holy Spirit. Whose sins you forgive are forgiven them, and whose sins you retain are retained." (John 20: 22-23)
Meditation: We have not received the spirit of slavery and live in fear, but the spirit that makes us sons and daughters of God and empowers us to call God – Abba!
DHIKR SIMPLE METHOD...
Dhikr is an Arabic word for remembrance. In the “tariqa” (the way) movement, dhikr developed into a form of prayer… It is a prayer of the heart… following three simple steps:
1. Write in one’s heart a certain passage of the Holy Writ…
2. Make the same passage ever present in one’s lips.
3. Then wait for God’s disclosure on the meaning of the passage…that interprets one’s life NOW…!
It takes a week of remembering (dhikr)…or even more days to relish the beauty of this method…
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