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.

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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.