Jesus at the Casino

 

I saw Jesus tonight at the Casino.  He wasn't in the toga, with wavy beach hair surrounded by a glowing aura either.  He was just as Mother Teresa the Saint of Calcutta said he would be:  "in the distressing disguise of the poor."  He had a knit sports team hat on, I think the Buffalo bills.  He was white-Anglo, probably redneck or rural poor, with a winter jacket and dark trousers on.  And He had some sort of moustache and, I think, glasses.  I almost missed him sitting on the cushioned bench which was just outside the restrooms... like everybody else did.

I glanced quickly at him and how people were doing their own thing:  going into the Lav, using the ATM Cash machine, wiping up tables, supervising their kids eating, pushing a baby carriage, talking with friends.  And He was just sitting there, slumped over with his chin touching his knee cap.  I cocked my head to the side.  I was looking to see signs of life.  At any rate, I was equally as bewildered that for all of his appearance seeming "not right," people were walking right by as if He was invisible.  

Earlier, I had popped over to the Food Court (I did NO gambling today.  I was just in the area and had a dessert from Opal's on my mind.) and grabbed a piece of pizza.  It was big.  It was also $5.50. I pondered that we used to be able to get a whole entire pizza in college for $5.50.  As I was eating it at the counter-style seating area, I was watching the managers circle the perimeter of the Food Court like coyotes near the farm at sunset.  Their purpose was not clear.  One of them actually looked like a coyote.  It made me wonder how much they get paid to survey the Food Court.  But in order to get INTO the Food Court, they had to have walked by the bench where the guy was.  Hmm... But let me back up the story a bit... 

Apparently I ate too fast.  As I was walking towards Opal's to grab a dessert to go and a hot latte, I started to feel funny.  Some sort of indigestion that keeps bothering me lately, but it is actually all just air.  Instead of going to the dessert case, I sat down at the table.  I started asking myself Heart Attack Questions.  Nah, my arm was okay.  This was just a trapped air issue.  So I took out my cell phone and faked it like I was actually doing something. I went on Google Finance and checked my stocks. I scribbled five numbers on a piece of paper to transfer to my notebook at home. What I really was doing was waiting for the feeling to pass.  I was regretting the slice of pizza, or maybe that I had just wolfed it down too quickly.  I killed some time, made a mental note to have some Pepto at home, and walked over to the dessert case.  I think sometimes all these things that seem to us like "delays" in our plans are actually the Almighty setting the stage in another area so we can walk into it and play the hand He dealt us, pun intended.

So I zipped my coat up, grabbed my latte and my little cheesecake-ette, all pretty with raspberries sitting on top.  I actually walked right by Jesus!  I walked the full length of a row of machines, came to a dead-end, not my intended exit, then I circled back and passed by the ATM machine.  I glanced at the guy on the bench for the first time really.  I kept walking, processing conflicting data.  Then something inside my head said, "Look at him again."  That's when I saw the guy was crumpled forward with his chin on his arm and knee.  As I stated above, I kind of didn't know what to make of that.  The position defied physics.  Why hadn't he fallen OFF the bench?  This consideration of data was all going through my head as if I was in the Twilight Zone.  I looked around for the Coyote-Duty Security Guards.  Where the hell are they when they might be of some assistance?!  Perhaps they had vanished somewhere into the bowels of the casino amidst blinking lights and people hoping to defy the odds of gambling. I glanced into the Food Court area and saw the kind-looking man with the dishrag and bucket waiting for people to leave their tables so he could clean up their messes.  (And I thought the last job I interviewed for sounded humbling!)  I pointed at him like I was someone with authority.  He moved toward me.  I gestured toward the man slumped on the bench and said, "Can you call Someone?  That just doesn't look right,"  He nodded with the sobriety of a judge and went to the employee behind the burger counter.  She sent out this guy who was definitely not  Security.  He looked like a collision of the Pillsbury Dough Boy and a short bus driver, only clothed all in white with black trim.  Convinced that my part in the story was over, I faded into the casino's noise as I made my way toward the far exit where I had left my vehicle, it seems years ago.  

Look, I've seen Jesus before like this.  And I always try to get help for Him.  I saw Him on His back in a vacant lot in Montreal with beads of sweat on His browned, indigenous face in the 90 degree sun of that day.  I remember how angry I was when the chick working the laundromat next to the lot played the "I don't speak English" game with me when I was trying to ask her to call help for him.  I bet if I asked her to sing the words to the United States National Anthem for $50 she would have been able to crank that out.  I have seen Him in the woman, size 4 in a red parka and jeans who was alone on the street in Syracuse in negative 20 degrees Farrenheit, plus wind chill factor.  She was looking to get back to her side of the city.  I took her myself and she taught me a powerful lesson on trusting God. I saw Him down the street from where I live, I believe that time He had escaped from a local nursing home and was planning to walk to Utica.  (Utica is an hour drive from my house.  Walking is ... yeah, a bit farther.) I talked to Him, and then sent the State Police to Him. 

So, yes, I've seen Jesus.  But how many times have I not seen Him?  That question now bothers me more.  And I think that is good because it keeps me from being mad at all the people in the casino tonight who were in a mental coma and walked right by Him.  It reminds me of a song we used to sing in college:

    "Open my eyes, Lord, help me to see Your Face.  Open my eyes, Lord, help me to see ..."

Make of that what you will.

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Calling All Ducks - Homiletics Revisited (#2 in series)

It takes PEOPLE to sell duck calls.  I think that's what Willie Robertson knew all along, hence "The Dynasty."  I want to pull out some interesting parallels between the phenomenon of Duck Dynasty and Homilies.  They had successful seasons.  They had a spin-off show from their Duck Dynasty series.  They had books by a few of their cast members, who are also family members - and that sells.  And they made my favorite Christmas cd - ever.  I mean it.  If I get stranded on a desert island for the rest of my life (please, God) I want my dogs and my Duck Dynasty Christmas cd.

Look, at its most basic form, a duck call is ... a hunting device.  There.  I said it.  Call PETA and complain.  A duck call is just a small wooden cylinder the size of a shot gun shell, give or take, that a man holds up to  his mouth and kind of blows into in order to bring ducks into the range where they can be shot down out of the air.  If he is not in the correct attire, or moves around too much in the "duck blind" - a platform or berm created with leaves and brush to hide the hunter - the ducks won't come down to land in the pond.  No ducks, no food.  If he does not have a well-made duck call, when he blows into it one of two things will happen:  1)  it will make no sound; 2) it will make a sound like the 8th grade boy in the back of my classroom years ago, when he wasn't sleeping.  That sound won't bring ducks down-flight either, although the rising greenish cloud may kill them mid-air before the shotgun does.  I'm not sure I could eat that duck.

So this hunting device isn't going to sell itself like hotcakes.  Like fishing lures, it will just sit on a shelf somewhere in a sporting goods store until one guy tells another, "You know I tried the Mighty Quack call the other day and darned if it didn't bring down some mallards!"  Word of mouth is important, but if you can make a very funny television series, you can sell much larger quantities to a good fraction of the intended customers within the audience.  And you can also sell tee shirts, drinking cups, coffee mugs, and keychains to people who don't even hunt... who may have hunters that visit their house or live in their extended family or social circle, so you have another venue of advertisement via all those products.  Well, until Wally-world cancels you and puts your products in the back Clearance Corner because they don't support freedom of EVERYONE'S speech, most particularly Phil Robertson.  (Ask him if he cares.  He answers to a Higher Authority, as do I.)  

If a preacher or homilist is going to present the message of the gospel - which is itself a "duck call," they need to think about this.  You have a wide variety of people in front of you.  Do you know them and their experience and abilities well enough to extend this message to them with relevance?  If not, why not?  Start there.  Know your audience/congregation.  Know their needs and their fears.  You are a human and you are addressing humans.  Lived experience with duck calls, with the Message, matters most.  You may be in the immediate moment preaching a homily about the Virtues, but you are also equipping those in front of you to test-drive that message and to be the example to the friends, neighbors and co-workers who won't be going to church unless six strong men carry them there horizontally.  So you have a Message that was initially intended for nomadic tribes in desert lands.  You have to take that in all its profound wisdom and simplicity and make it be perceived quite obviously as relevant to the modern world.  

Then to clinch the loyalty of the audience you use what I call the "Personality Plus Factor."  And most of you know I am not referencing Willie (!), Jase (!), or the Other guys ... It's Uncle Si.  Silas Robertson has got what it takes.... home-spun charm and a 32 ounce glass of southern sweet tea.  Okay, maybe the corporate executives like Willie best because he is the voice of leadership that struggles and blunders and makes the tough decisions.  He's got the headaches and the mutiny to deal with - but he finds success.  He's like St. Peter.  You've got the now mostly cameo appearances of Phil Robertson here and there  - his fiery personality and fearless commitment to what he knows to be right and true appeal to the crusaders in the audience.  He's like St. Paul.  You've got Jase and the guys in the shop - younger brother included - and all the banter and silliness and yet important discussions ... all part of the corporation.  They challenge the authority (Willie), yet they ARE Duck Dynasty too.  They are like the apostles.  "Hey, when you come in your glory, can I sit and your right hand and my brother at your left?" the apostles wanted Jesus to ... "Pick me! Pick me!"  (Hey, don't we all?!)  

But Uncle Silas Robertson is the very folksy - "Listen, Jack, I tell you what..." and for some reason - curiosity more than educational desire, I think - we listen.  We see him in his flaws and goofiness.  He is more a part of "us" than a part of The Dynasty image, and we can relate to that.  He draws a deeper knowledge out of us as a skilled, albeit odd, educator.  For instance, when he sings the Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer song and inserts the names of little girls "Trixie and Dixie," and seems to goof it up, his niece corrects him, "No, no, no, Uncle Si!  It goes like this:  Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer ..." and she sings the whole song flawlessly.  He has just given her the Road Test and she passed with flying colors without even realizing she was being tested.  "Now, that's what I'm talkin' about, Jack."  A good homilist, a good pastor, a great educator does that - they make it fun, they draw it out of you, they make you not fear the Test. 

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I dedicate this to my friend Louie S. whose enthusiasm for all things duck hunting was quite disconcerting to me when we met over 35 years ago.  I am not going to shoot them, but I love ducks too!

The Voice of Experience - Homiletics Revisited (#1 in series)

 

I never took a course in Homiletics.  I didn't need one.  I am pretty sure I was born "talking."  And I know that I have sat through approximately (50 Sundays a year x 50 years)+(8 Catholic holy days of obligations a year) = 2,900 homilies, give or take.  So now even though I am jobless, I am contemplating writing a book on Homiletics because even though it doesn't say it on my resume, It is What I Know.  What the heck do I know?  I know this:  The content.  The desired outcome.  What Not to say.  

I have sat at the feet of Masters.  People who were able to talk about the Faith in such a profound and inspiring way, they made the apostles look like bunglers.  Which, given some of the descriptions of their activities and responses to Christ, might not be too far off.  To the very Head of the Church that Jesus started, Jesus once said:  "Get behind me you satan.  You are thinking like a man, not like God thinks."  People preach that particular incident as if Jesus called Peter "Satan."  He called him "a satan," more loosely translated:  "you adversary."  There is a difference... especially if you are on the receiving end of that injunction.  It was tone of voice that got lost in translation I am sure.  I think the function of the comment was, "Straighten up and fly right, buddy."  

Frankly, I think a lot of the "sense" of Scripture does run the risk of getting lost in translation.  That is not the fault of the writers.  It is the fault of the English-speaking translators.  Those original languages of Hebrew, Greek, and Latin do not slide over into English as well as we would like or hope they did.  That is because we live in a land where we can love a car, love a dog, love pizza, and love our grandmother all with the same word and mean something completely different by it each time.  The only cultural movement that helped us weed out squealy-huggy types of love from all the other kinds of more profound love are the junior high girls who invented the spelling "Luv."  That helped.  Other than that we are still having to teach our English-speakers to look at the Greek words for love in an original  Biblical text to grasp what the writer really meant.  1)  Storge (pronounced:  Store-geh) meaning friendship; 2) Eros (pronounced: air-o's) meaning passionate love; 3) Philos (Fi-lo) meaning brotherly love; and 4) Agape (ah-gah-pay) meaning gracious love.  

I referenced the Master-preachers.  I just want to tip my hat, albeit post-humously, to one of them.  He was a former monk,  I believe Carthusian or Cistercian, a major-leaguer at any rate.  So he had lived a life of deep prayer, soaked in the Scriptures. Then he came to teach us at University.  He spoke, I think, at least eight languages.  My guess is they might include the following:  English, Hebrew, Greek, Aramaic, Arabic, French, Spanish, German, and Italian.  When he would turn to the chalkboard to write a word on it, it was not uncommon for him to look at our confused faces, and then turn back to the chalkboard, ball-up his fist and erase the word and write its translation in English.  He would chuckle.  And we chuckled but we all knew we were sitting at the feet of a Brilliant Star.  Although I will say that, just for fun, I have done the same thing with a random Greek word when I was teaching kids because I enjoyed the group befuddlement.  You don't have to know the whole language's words to just throw one or two out occasionally for fun.  And it is fun.

This particular preacher - or maybe he was really a Christian Jedi Master - could speak the message of Christ and the Gospel right to your heart.  You could put down your pen and forget your notebook.  Just let the words of fire blaze right into your soul.  I remember just shaking my head, I was so overcome by the power.  It was not a stomping, Bible-thumping, Hallelujah-jumping method.  It was words that made sense on a whole new level.  Just quiet Truth stepping into my reality and making me blink with astonishment.

Well that was over 40 years ago and no homily or conference has made me feel that since then.  It doesn't mean it is not possible.  It just means that no one knows how to tap into that level of Truth unless they have the prayer life of Mother Teresa.  And that is rare.  We are all so tainted by our pre-conceived notions of reality and the background garbling of politics, upbringing, and culture inside our heads that it is a wonder we make any sense at all.

I listened to a homily last week and thought, "Oh heavens, this is more boring than a football game," and for precisely the same reason:  it did not engage me personally on any level.  The homilist talked about some great college kids that served the poor in their spare time and how inspirational that was to him.  Good for you, Father.  But that and two bucks will get me a cup of coffee at Denny's.  Well, just about.  We forget, when we craft these almost inspirational messages, WHO is actually sitting in front of us.  A few weeks ago, another homilist challenged the weekend congregants to not be impressed by the cultural role models of Hollywood.  And yet ... from where I was sitting BEHIND 75% of those people, in the back of the church, judging from all the silver-haired faithful in front of me, his accusation was misplaced.  He was giving a Youth homily to an Adult Audience.  That is an important consideration because those people are not role modeling after Hollywood unless Pat Sajak  and Ken Jennings count. (Sorry, gentlemen.)  

My saintly preacher from years ago used to remind us that everything should point to the Cross of Christ.  "Listen for the cross," he used to say.  Why would that be?  It's because the fundamental message of the Gospel is NOT about being Christian social workers.  YES charity is important.  YES justice for the poor and the downtrodden is important.  But those things are only particulates of the whole message.  The whole message is, as shown on signs at baseball games:  "John 3:16."  

"For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son that whosoever shall believe in Him will be saved."

If you have one homily to give, that's the one to give.  Each word or phrase matters.  God.  Loved.  the World.  His only Son.  Whosoever.  Saved.  That's it.  The sacrifice of the cross was preceded by the sacrifice of a benevolent Creator/Father.  And every single scoundrel among us is the "whosoever" that can be saved.  That is powerful stuff.  That will preach.  Yes, sir.

Don't tell me about college students doing good things.  Tell me about what YOU did that was good - something that changed YOU.  I don't want second-hand inspiration, the flavor is muted.  I did a good thing once.  (that's all I really remember)  After driving by the girl on the street corner with the Hungry Sign and Vacant Eyes for, oh, about three YEARS, I couldn't stand myself anymore.  I pulled into the parking lot, shut off my car and walked right over to her.  I looked her right in the eyes - pained eyes - and said, "What is your name?"  She said, "Beth."  I said, "Beth.  I SEE YOU.  I drive by you.  I pray for you.  But you need to know you are not invisible.  I SEE YOU."  Later I brought her a brand new jacket that I never saw her wear.  Shortly after that encounter she moved to a different location.  I asked her a couple of questions that had very predictable answers.  But I will never forget that face, those eyes.  I wasn't afraid of her.  I hurt for her.  I gave her information I hoped would help her move her life out of that rut.  This doesn't make me good or special or much of anything.  It just means that for one tiny 15 minute period of my life, I did exactly what God wanted me to do:  I acknowledged the suffering of humanity and gave a moment of love.

Preaching should move people.  Not move them just to "do good things."  It should move us to be better, deeper, more thoughtful people.  When someone says to me, "I'm not religious; I'm spiritual," I really have to watch myself.  Because everything in me wants to say:  "Even a satanist is 'spiritual.'  We are all SPIRITUAL BEINGS - that is what it means to be human!  So what are you doing with these warm feelings inside your  heart?"   I know I am fresh.  I can't really help myself, but I try to not shoot them out of the sky.  Really, you are 'spiritual'?  what the heck does that even mean?!

Spirituality, has to have a direct relationship with what is True.  If it does not, than of what more import is it than drinking a glass of brandy on a stormy winter night?  Sure it makes you feel good when you ponder it.  But other than that passing feeling, what exactly IS IT?  I suggest that Spirituality has to be anchored to concepts of Reality that are True, and as such are extensions of What God is.  If, as philosophers put forth before I was born, "God is:  Beauty, Truth, Wisdom and Love," then that is going to put a lot of things in better perspective.

Let's start with a cease-fire on God's Goodness.  I absolutely HATE when people say, "Why do bad things happen to good people?"  Heck.  Wake up.  Bad things happen to all people.  The degree of bad varies according to circumstances, relationships, situations, etc.  But we all can yell:  "Unfair!" at least once in our lives.  I will write more on that another time.  I just want to thank Father Stan Fortuna, the rapper priest for his song, "Everybody Gotta Suffah,"  because truer words were never spoken.  It is part & parcel of the human condition that we suffer.  And God does not dish it out to us.  He walks through it with us.  This I know.  But that is another Homiletics lesson for another day.  Go chew on this for now.  I gave you a lot to think about.

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