Sunday, February 28, 2021

Why Don't People Listen to Me?

 

As I was reminded --- again --- on EWTN this morning, that is the wrong question.  The right question is “Why don’t I listen more?” 

My Morning Prayers today included Psalm 95, where I read the words: “Today, listen to the voice of the Lord”.

The Gospel this Sunday was on the Transfiguration, Jesus displaying a small part of His glory to His apostles to --- as some reflections state --- give them confidence, for His Passion was about to begin.  The priest this morning chose to reflect on a part of that Gospel, however, not often stressed.  It’s where God the Father speaks from the heavens and says: “This is my beloved Son; listen to Him.” 

Listen.

Do I listen in conversations with family, friends, or God?  Do I feel compelled to always be the one speaking?  I may be wise and have great ideas and insights, but as the priest noted: “A good conversation is 75% listening”.  The priest went so far as to say that perhaps this is something we need to consider in confession.  Confession?  Is sharing my insights/wisdom a sin?  Yes, he explains, for others have insights and wisdom, given to them by God, which we may not be hearing because we are so full of our self.

Self.  There’s a word which I can readily associate with sin. Much of the world’s problems today are caused by people focused on themselves, their opinions, their way of seeing and doing things, and thinking you are wrong for not agreeing with them, and they can’t listen.  Yes, I can see that “self” can be a cause of sin.  It’s called Pride, the opposite of the Humility I pray for.

For Lent, the priest this morning suggested that we might confess our sins of not listening, and resolve to listen more, to be healed of “self”. 

I pray the Litany of Humility each night.  The opening lines are: 

O Jesus!  Meek and humble of heart, hear me.  From the desire of being esteemed, deliver me, Jesus.  From the desire of being loved, deliver me, Jesus. 

I pray for humility, but as I was reminded, it begins with me and how I love others, including listening to them.

Friday, February 26, 2021

God's Promises

I remember Fr. Benedict Groeschel every day in prayer.  I’ve read all the books he wrote during his life; His words have influenced my life.  But I especially remember the nights when I was at The Defending The Faith Conference, held each summer at Franciscan University in Steubenville, Ohio.  On Saturday nights would be a Holy Hour of adoration, and at the end Fr. Benedict would walk up and down each aisle of the auditorium, carrying the monstrance containing Our Lord, with a single spotlight shining on It, the only light in the room.  And I remember how Fr. Benedict occasionally stopped, turned and blessed the nearby people with Our Lord.  And I recall the time when he blessed me and I knew God was with me at that moment, and within me like never before.  Truly Fr Benedict was someone who brought God to me, and he still does.

Each Lent I read a book of his daily Lenten meditations (The King, Crucified and Risen).  As it often happens, his words touch my heart, like these yesterday:

 

            How much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask                 him!
                                                                                                - MATTHEW 7:11

When we pray, inevitably we find ourselves asking God for things.  I used to feel guilty about this, but I gave up that particular guilt.  It came to me that God obviously wants to give us things.  God is a giver --- the great giver.  Consider God the Father in the incredible beauty of creation, God the Son in the immense riches of grace He obtained for us by His life and death, and God the Holy Spirit in His constant inspiration and His holding of all creation in existence from moment to moment.  Giving, giving, giving.  When we are trying to relate to such a Being, it is rather obvious that we should ask for things.  This is precisely the advice Our Lord gives us: “Ask, and you shall receive, seek, and you shall find” (Mt 7:7).

The challenge is to ask in the right way, otherwise, religion becomes a grab bag, a kind of immature ritual.  Those who go to God as spoiled children are entirely disappointed by Him.  A thousand times I have heard the words, “I really prayed hard for …, but God did not give it to me.”

Christ promised that God would answer our prayers.  “Ask, and you shall receive.”  He did not promise that we would receive exactly what we wanted or thought we needed.  Rather, in answering our prayers, He gives us what is best for us in God’s plan.  How many times have you later realized that what you asked for would have been disastrous for you or someone else?  God’s will for us is the best.

What about obviously good things we ask for and do not receive?  I think of the thousands of people who had loved ones in the World Trade Center and who prayed desperately but they did not come home.  When people do evil things or nature gets unruly, as it does during an earthquake, many human beings can get caught in the way.  They pray fervently, but apparently the worst happens anyway.  Here is where faith must come in.  After the shock, grief, and anger are past, one must sit down and decide to believe again in the goodness of God.  Often this is not as difficult as it may seem, because in the course of time we experience what St. Paul meant when he said, “We know that all things work for good for those who love God” (Rom 8:28).

But there are times when we cannot see any good.  This is when we must believe and trust that God will bring the best out in eternity.  If you have trouble doing this, think of the sorrows of the mother of Jesus.  Surely she must have prayed that the cup of suffering would pass Him by.  It did not.  She held on until the Resurrection, only to lose Him again.  She had to wait until the journey of her own life was finished.  Yet it is clear from the life of the Blessed Virgin that although all things work together unto good for those who believe, it is never easy.

Prayer:
Lord, Jesus, increase my faith so that no matter what happens, I may believe and trust in You.  Help me to know that I will receive the good gifts that I need to go on.  Amen.

- - - - - - - - --

“That I may die to the world for love of Thee,
as Thou hast died on the cross for love of me.”

 

Tuesday, February 23, 2021

A Lent Sacrifice

 

As I prayed the Joyful Mysteries of the Rosary this morning – the Angel’s Annunciation, the Visitation to Elizabeth, the Birth of Jesus, the Presentation of Baby Jesus in the Temple, and the Finding of the Child Jesus in the Temple --- I recalled that these “joyful” events we celebrate in those prayers, from another viewpoint, are also sad events.  The events and situations surrounding them were likely difficult to accept for Mary and Joseph, and likely very confusing to them as to their meaning.  Their world was changing in ways they had not planned.

Each year, we’re called to make some Lenten sacrifice, to begin a conversion of our hearts to become more who Jesus would have us be.  We/I usually think of that as giving up something, like candy as a kid, but as an adult some bad habit or thought or opinion, or to make some financial donation.  Lent is a time to begin a change of our heart.  It is a sacrifice to do so, and a good thing that we would do.  But then I thought of those “Joyful” mysteries of the rosary, and how those good things were also sad or troubling things.  And yet Mary and Joseph accepted them, and in retrospect we and they can look back and see the “joyful” side of the events which happened to them, even if at that time they occurred perhaps Mary and Joseph could not.

Regarding Lenten sacrifices, it occurred to me that many who would be asked to sacrifice this Lent, in this most troubled world, would say “I don’t have any joyful thing to sacrifice; my world is so difficult right now.  I can’t even afford candy.”  But the Joyful Mysteries reminded me that we can look at our world from a different viewpoint.  The Joyful Mysteries were in many ways also sorrowful times, so also our sorrowful times in some way may be joyful events.  Now you may say I can’t see any joy coming out of losing my job or social distancing or the virus everywhere, but likely Mary and Joseph couldn’t see any joy out of the details of “Joyful” mysteries as they lived them.  But the joy could be seen after the sorrows had passed.  Certainly, Jesus’ Passion and Crucifixion were no joyful events, but look at the results:  His and Our Resurrection and eternal life. 

Rather than “giving up” something for this Lent, I think perhaps many of us might benefit from sacrificing as Jesus did --- for a vivid example.  He gave up not candy, but His life, or rather, He accepted that He came to earth to die, for a greater purpose.  This Lent, if we are too troubled to think about making any Lenten sacrifices, perhaps we should instead make a different Lenten sacrifice:  Instead of giving up something, we accept something, as Jesus, Mary and Joseph did.  Why are bad things happening to us and our country and the world right now?  I certainly don’t know, but I can trust in Jesus; I can accept that He has a plan and that I am here and alive and that even my suffering right now is somehow part of that plan, out of which He will bring a Joy I can’t see or understand right now. I can think of all the bad things going on in my life and say, in prayer, thoughtfully and sincerely, “Jesus, I trust in You.”

That can be my Lenten sacrifice, to accept the bad things in my life right now, even as Jesus accepted His Passion and death.  Then, this Lent I can truly grow in my understanding of all that Jesus did for us.  And Easter morning will be a truly Joyous Mystery which we can see and understand how much Jesus did for us ---- and continues to do.

- - - - - - - - - -

As I now often write, the EWTN mass sermon each morning is a great teaching moment.  This morning the priest mentioned that the Sermon on the Mount, that important teaching on how we are to live our lives, used the words “Our Father” or “My Father” or “Your Father” 17 times.  The most important teaching on how to live pointed out that knowing God is Our Father, who loves us in all things, at all times should be a key part of how we live our lives.  Our Father loves us.

The priest also quoted from Babe Ruth’s last letter.  He was one of baseball’s greatest players ever, but he was human.  His dying letter shows his trust in God, which we all should have, but especially in these times, and the letter shows the importance of teaching our children the truths of the Christian faith:

Bad boy Ruth that was me.

Don't get the idea that I'm proud of my harum-scarum youth. I'm not. I simply had a rotten start in life, and it took me a long time to get my bearings.

Looking back to my youth, I honestly don't think I knew the difference between right and wrong. I spent much of my early boyhood living over my father's saloon, in Baltimore—and when I wasn't living over it, I was in it, soaking up the atmosphere. I hardly knew my parents.

St. Mary's Industrial School in Baltimore, where I was finally taken, has been called an orphanage and a reform school. It was, in fact, a training school for orphans, incorrigibles, delinquents and runaways picked up on the streets of the city. I was listed as an incorrigible. I guess I was. Perhaps I would always have been but for Brother Matthias, the greatest man I have ever known, and for the religious training I received there which has since been so important to me.

I doubt if any appeal could have straightened me out except a Power over and above man—the appeal of God. Iron-rod discipline couldn't have done it. Nor all the punishment and reward systems that could have been devised. God had an eye out for me, just as He has for you, and He was pulling for me to make the grade.

As I look back now, I realize that knowledge of God was a big crossroads with me. I got one thing straight (and I wish all kids did)—that God was Boss. He was not only my Boss but Boss of all my bosses. Up till then, like all bad kids, I hated most of the people who had control over me and could punish me. I began to see that I had a higher Person to reckon with who never changed, whereas my earthly authorities changed from year to year. Those who bossed me had the same self-battles—they, like me, had to account to God. I also realized that God was not only just, but merciful. He knew we were weak and that we all found it easier to be stinkers than good sons of God, not only as kids but all through our lives.

That clear picture, I'm sure, would be important to any kid who hates a teacher, or resents a person in charge. This picture of my relationship to man and God was what helped relieve me of bitterness and rancor and a desire to get even.

I've seen a great number of "he-men" in my baseball career, but never one equal to Brother Matthias. He stood six feet six and weighed 250 pounds. It was all muscle. He could have been successful at anything he wanted to in life—and he chose the church.

It was he who introduced me to baseball. Very early he noticed that I had some natural talent for throwing and catching. He used to back me in a corner of the big yard at St. Mary's and bunt a ball to me by the hour, correcting the mistakes I made with my hands and feet. I never forget the first time I saw him hit a ball. The baseball in 1902 was a lump of mush, but Brother Matthias would stand at the end of the yard, throw the ball up with his left hand, and give it a terrific belt with the bat he held in his right hand. The ball would carry 350 feet, a tremendous knock in those days. I would watch him bug-eyed.

Thanks to Brother Matthias I was able to leave St. Mary's in 1914 and begin my professional career with the famous Baltimore Orioles. Out on my own... free from the rigid rules of a religious school . . . boy, did it go to my head. I began really to cut capers.

I strayed from the church, but don't think I forgot my religious training. I just overlooked it. I prayed often and hard, but like many irrepressible young fellows, the swift tempo of living shoved religion into the background.

So what good was all the hard work and ceaseless interest of the Brothers, people would argue? You can't make kids religious, they say, because it just won't take. Send kids to Sunday School and they too often end up hating it and the church.

Don't you believe it. As far as I'm concerned, and I think as far as most kids go, once religion sinks in, it stays there—deep down. The lads who get religious training, get it where it counts—in the roots. They may fail it, but it never fails them. When the score is against them, or they get a bum pitch, that unfailing Something inside will be there to draw on. I've seen it with kids. I know from the letters they write me. The more I think of it, the more important I feel it is to give kids "the works" as far as religion is concerned. They'll never want to be holy—they'll act like tough monkeys in contrast, but somewhere inside will be a solid little chapel. It may get dusty from neglect, but the time will come when the door will be opened with much relief. But the kids can't take it, if we don't give it to them.

I've been criticized as often as I've praised for my activities with kids on the grounds that what I did was for publicity. Well, criticism doesn't matter. I never forgot where I came from. Every dirty-faced kid I see is another useful citizen. No one knew better than I what it meant not to have your own home, a backyard, your own kitchen and icebox. That's why all through the years, even when the big money was rolling in, I'd never forget St. Mary's, Brother Matthias and the boys I left behind. I kept going back.

As I look back those moments when I let the kids down—they were my worst. I guess I was so anxious to enjoy life to the fullest that I forgot the rules or ignored them. Once in a while you can get away with it, but not for long. When I broke training, the effects were felt by myself and by the ball team—and even by the fans.

While I drifted away from the church, I did have my own "altar," a big window of my New York apartment overlooking the city lights. Often I would kneel before that window and say my prayers. I would feel quite humble then. I'd ask God to help me not make such a big fool of myself and pray that I'd measure up to what He expected of me.

In December, 1946 I was in French Hospital, New York, facing a serious operation. Paul Carey, one of my oldest and closest friends, was by my bed one night.

"They're going to operate in the morning, Babe," Paul said. "Don't you think you ought to put your house in order?"

I didn't dodge the long, challenging look in his eyes. I knew what he meant. For the first time I realized that death might strike me out. I nodded, and Paul got up, called in a Chaplain, and I made a full confession.

"I'll return in the morning and give you Holy Communion," the chaplain said," But you don't have to fast." "I'll fast," I said. I didn't have even a drop of water.

As I lay in bed that evening, I thought to myself what a comforting feeling to be free from fear and worries. I now could simply turn them over to God. Later on, my wife brought in a letter from a little kid in Jersey City. "Dear Babe", he wrote, "Everybody in the seventh grade class is pulling and praying for you. I am enclosing a medal, which if you wear will make you better. Your pal—Mike Quinlan.

P.S. I know this will be your 61st homer. You'll hit it."

I asked them to pin the Miraculous Medal to my pajama coat. I've worn the medal constantly ever since. I'll wear it to my grave.