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.
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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.
