Yoda has a Cold

 When your Yoda Halloween costume does not turn out as planned, grandpapa tall tale telling skills come in handy. I explained to my grandchildren that Yoda had a cold and when he had a cold, he did not cough or sneeze or have a runny nose, but his ears drooped and he looked very very silly.

Dancing with the Father

Here is something I wrote a quarter of a century ago (says the old man!):

When we have known a person for a long time, we become able to judge whether or not what they say or do is "in character." As Christians, we are called to "put on the mind of Christ", to act more and more in a Christ-like manner, to have a Christ-like attitude. Jesus was completely in tune with God's will and could let himself be guided by the Spirit because his whole being was oriented to the Father from within. What determined for Jesus the appropriateness of an action, the truth of a word, the rightness of a decision was this relationship with the Father. He was completely open to go where the Father sent him, completely willing to be led by the Father into the dance of life. His love for the Father was the underlying rhythm of this dance. Jesus was so imbued with this rhythm that he could freely improvise the steps without missing a beat.

A few years ago, when I was involved with the RCIA process in my parish, one of the catechumen in our group kept on repeating that she wanted to know what she needed to do to be right with God. I got the impression that she was afraid that God would not accept her fully unless she did the right things. She was looking for some type of security in knowing what to do. In an attempt to help her put her focus elsewhere, I used dancing as an analogy. I suggested that when we first start dancing, we are rather clumsy and we are afraid to step on our partner's feet. We therefore have a tendency to watch our feet and to count out the steps in our head. It makes for a very stilted dance and, frankly, it's not a whole lot of fun. It's only when we feel secure enough through practice that we can let ourselves relax and forget our feet. The music then guides us along and our bodies know as if by instinct what to do next. In the same way, the "rules" set out by the church and in the Bible are like the steps of a dance. We need to learn these steps, but we have not really learned to "dance with the Father" until we can stop looking at our feet in fear of a misstep. The purpose of the dance is not to get the steps right, but to enjoy being with the Father as he leads us in the dance.

The Gift of Faith

 My adult faith was gifted to me by one of my grade 9 students. I had left my childhood faith behind when I left home at 17. It was not until I was 28 that I could say once again, “I believe.”

Late in August 1978, I was married with two young children and unemployed when I got an offer to teach in a Catholic High School. At that time in the province of Quebec, students had two options: Catholic religious education or Moral studies courses. The latter option was for those who did not want a faith-based course. I was told I would be teaching 6 Moral Studies classes in grades 9 though 11.

Two days before the start of the school year, I arrived at the high school and was handed my teaching schedule: 6 blocks of Catholic religious education classes. When I met the head of the religious education department, I told him about my dilemma: I needed the job, but I did not believe in what I was asked to teach. He suggested that I talk with Maurice, a priest who worked at the high school. To my surprise, Maurice did not say I could not accept the teaching position. He simply said, “You cannot teach Catholic religious education classes unless you are a witness to Christ and unless you are on a journey of faith with your students.” I knew in my heart that what he said was true. I also knew that, to be honest with myself, with the school and with my students, I somehow needed to find a way to take a first step on that “journey of faith”.

That very same day, I read a poster advertising a “Life in the Spirit Seminar”, a crash course on the Christian faith sponsored by the local Charismatic prayer group. It was offered at the church near the school and was starting that week. I registered to take it. When I arrived at the first meeting, I discovered that the coordinator and main teacher of the seminar was Maurice. The course was given over seven weeks at a rate of one night a week. On the seventh evening, members of the prayer group were to pray with each of the participants in the seminar asking that they be “Baptized in the Holy Spirit”.

After the sixth meeting, I went to see Maurice again and told him I still could not believe and therefore could not accept prayers for “Baptism in the Holy Spirit.” He replied, “That’s fine. If you want, when we pray with you, we will only pray for the gift of faith.” That is what they did on the last night of the seminar. I don’t know what I expected from their prayers, but there was no blinding light and certainly no being flung from my horse. When I left the church that evening, I felt as if nothing whatsoever had changed.

A few days later, I was teaching one of my grade 9 classes and a student raised his hand and asked me, “Do you believe in what you are teaching?” The words that then came out of my mouth surprised me, “Yes I do.” As soon as I had given that answer, I realized that what I had said was true. Whatever had prevented me from believing before had been removed. Still no fireworks, but only a gentle conviction that I did believe in Jesus. From then on, things did start to change within me. For example, the Bible had been a closed book to me, something that was opaque and meaningless. In the year that followed the seminar, I read most of it. It had become deeply alive and spoke to me in a very personal way.

My adult journey of faith started on the day a grade 9 student asked me a question. I have since joined countless others on that journey in the 43 years since it began: school students and colleagues, teens getting ready for confirmation in parishes, adult faith sharing groups, men and young adults on Cursillo and CORE weekends, participants in faith formation workshops or RCIA programs, teachers and students in theology courses… All of these people have continued gifting me with a deeper and deeper faith.

Names of God

Here is something I wrote 25 years ago while taking a theology course on Mary. It still speaks to my heart.

Names of God

"Is prayer not in fact, just an adventure wherein we try to name God?" -- Prévost , The Mother of God

"Prayer is not only the "lifting up of the mind and heart to God," but it is also the response to God within us, the discovery of God within us; it leads ultimately to the discovery and fulfillment of our own true being in God. Prayer is not just something that we do; it is a perspective-giving element that directs our whole life." -- Thomas Merton, Paradise Journey: Writings on Contemplation

Mother Mary

stay at my side

and teach me

how to name God

Show me names that are broad enough

to let God dwell in them

high enough

to let hope grow through them

deep enough

to include all of God's children

Teach me names that feed

not poison

names that heal

not crush

names that set captive hearts free

Teach me the names of God

that will reach those I love

and give them new life

Serendipity

 A year after we were married, Diane was cleaning out her old wallet, emptying expired bus tickets, tattered business cards and receipts that had been buried in its recesses for years. As she was doing that, she found a photograph she had cut out of her brother’s all boys high school yearbook more than 7 years before. The face on the photograph was that of a handsome and athletic-looking young man she had once had a crush on. On the flip side of that photo was that of a scrawny-looking lad with rather protruding ears. Diane remembered that when, as a teen, she used to pull out the photo to show it to her girlfriends, she would sometimes accidentally display the wrong side and quickly turn it around exclaiming, “Oh, not him!”

That morning, seven years later, she realized she had married the “scrawny-looking lad” on the flip side of the photograph. Serendipity? Or could it have been Providence…?

Comments

Contagious ! Contagieux !

 Smiling as I remember the giggling and bursts of laughter from my grandchildren at dinner table last night, I feel very grateful that there are many good things that are far more contagious than COVID-19.

Je souris en me rappelant les rires fous de mes petits enfants lors du souper hier soir et je suis reconnaissant qu'il y a beaucoup de bonnes choses qui sont plus contagieux que le COVID-19.

Boomerang

 Louis had Alzheimer’s. I visited him for years every Friday afternoon to spend some time with him. We would often walk to the library to read the newspapers. On the way there, we would invariably stop at a church that was open all day and where the Blessed Sacrament was exposed. We would spend a few minutes in silent prayer before heading for the library. On leaving the church one day, Louis turned to me and said, “Do you know what I prayed for today? I said to God, ‘Do you see that man sitting next to me? Please give him double what he is asking for.’ ” What Louis didn’t know was that the only prayer I made in that church that day was, “Lord, please bless Louis.” When love is freely and generously given to someone near you, it has a tendency to boomerang right back at you and embrace you double fold, ten fold or even a hundred fold.

Playing Cards

Until recently and for 15 years I was part of a volunteer team trained to accompany persons who were in palliative care. Most often, they were still at home and I would go there to spend a few hours with them. Occasionally, I would also visit them at the hospital when their condition worsened. One of the first person assigned to me – let’s call him Mr. L. – was an elderly gentleman who was hospitalized and wanted someone to play cards with him. I saw him weekly for about two months. Each time, the tattered decks of cards were out and ready to be distributed when I arrived. I don’t recall having many conversations with Mr. L. Playing card was foremost in his mind and I suspect he saw talking as a distraction from what was important.

We always played the same game – one I had never heard of before. He never really explained the rules of the game to me, but I assumed I could figure it out as we played. Whenever I thought I had finally done that, he would play a card that made no sense and thus made me think that I still did not understand the rules after all. I later found out from his son that his father could not see the cards very well and he told me not to worry too much about the cards he played or the rules. All that mattered was that he had someone to play cards with him.

When Mr. L. passed away, I went to his funeral. Mr. L. had asked his son to read a short letter he had written addressed to his family. I can’t remember the exact words, but it read something like this, “I have loved you dearly, and I know that you have loved me as well. A love like that never dies. When you get to heaven, I will be waiting for you with a big smile on my face and I will give you a hug. And then, we will sit down together and play cards!"

When I get to heaven, I hope that Mr. L. will invite me to play cards with him and his family. I would then finally be able to learn the rules of the game!

Miracles

I am a fan of miracles. Not the big ones, those that make a big splash. I don’t think I have encountered one of those. If I had, I think I would have felt extremely uncomfortable, like mingling with a crowd of power wielding dignitaries. I have, on the other hand, “met” many small miracles. For example, the flash of fiery red plumage of a cardinal as it bursts in and out of my field of vision and disappears behind the foliage of a tree or the “Je t’aime beaucoup grandpapa” from my grandchildren as I leave their house after a visit. I know these are miracles because of the awe and joy that surge from the deepest part of me every time I experience them.

A few years ago, I wrote about one of those small miracles. I would like to share that text here. It is in French, so my English friends will have to dust off their school French or whip out a translation app to decipher it.

UNE MONTAGE DANS LA MER

Amen, je vous le dis : quiconque dira à cette montagne : « Enlève-toi de là, et va te jeter dans la mer », s’il ne doute pas dans son cœur, mais s’il croit que ce qu’il dit arrivera, cela lui sera accordé ! Marc 11.23

Une foi à déplacer les montagnes ? Qu’arriverait-il si quelqu’un prenait cette parole à la lettre et s’attelait à déplacer de la sorte une montagne – disons une de celles qui se trouvent dans les Rocheuses ; une montagne avec des racines profondes et tenaces. Il faudrait une force inconcevablement immense pour l’arracher au sol où elle est plantée et notre planète tout entière en serait ébranlée. On peut s’imaginer le bruit infernal d’un massif en agonie, les convulsions de la Terre sur des milliers de kilomètres, un soleil éteint par une épaisse couche de débris et un gigantesque tsunami dévastateur : un véritable scénario apocalyptique ! Ce serait certainement spectaculaire et ne manquerait pas de capter l’attention de tout le monde. Mais je doute fort que cela changerait les cœurs de ceux et celles qui en seraient témoins ?

Les miracles que produisent une foi profonde et authentique sont beaucoup plus discrets que cela. Ils passent le plus souvent inaperçus et font rarement les manchettes, même pas en cinquième page d’un petit journal local.

Récemment, une bonne amie s’est retrouvée à l’hôpital pour une intervention chirurgicale qui nécessitait qu’elle y passe une nuit sous observation. Sa voisine, une haïtienne qui ne parlait que le créole, était manifestement angoissée et poussait sporadiquement de grands cris de détresse. Mon amie, ne sachant pas comment communiquer avec la dame autrement, s’est mise à chantonner tout bas pour la calmer. Elle a fait cela toute la nuit. Les cris ont cessé et les autres patients sur l’étage ont pu passer une nuit paisible.

Mon amie aurait pu s’impatienter, se plaindre auprès du personnel de santé, ou se replier sur elle-même et se prendre en pitié à cause du mal qu’elle ressentait. Il est beaucoup plus difficile d’arracher un cœur humain à l’indifférence, à la colère, à la rancune, à la dureté que d’arracher une montagne et de la projeter dans la mer. Quand un cœur s’ouvre à la souffrance d’une autre personne, c’est le royaume de Dieu, la compassion même de Dieu, qui fait irruption dans notre monde. Être capable de s’oublier soi-même et se tourner vers quelqu’un d’autre qui a besoin d’une présence compatissante – voilà pour moi l’étoffe d’un véritable miracle.

Holy Ground

 One of the comments that a previous post focusing on my bald head elicited was that it was a good “parable”. At first, that surprised me. The post was meant simply as an anecdotal retelling of an event in the past. Upon reflection, I realized that such retellings can indeed be “parables”.

Jesus used simple everyday things and events to give us glimpses into what the “Kingdom of God” was like: a lost coin, yeast used in breadmaking, seeds, strained relationships between a Father and his two sons, unjust law makers, heartless rich men, birds and flowers in the field. He never spoke about a bald head but, he did say, “And even the very hair on your head are numbered.” Whenever I hear or read that scripture passage, I imagine Jesus turning to me with a big grin on his face and adding as an aside, “ In your case Gilles, that didn’t take very long did it!”

It is also in simple everyday things that I often get glimpses of God in my life. Things that, for some reason, draw my attention and compel me to keep them in my heart and to mull over them. Sometimes these are heartwarming, and I feel like cradling them gently. At other times, they can be heart wrenching and I must grapple with them for a long while. But in both cases, there comes a time when, like Jacob after his night-long struggle with an angel, I realize that “God was there, and I did not know it.”

Thanksgiving

 In the middle of thanksgiving dinner last night, my six-year-old grandson Victor says, “Because this is such a thankful day, I feel like getting up and giving everyone a hug. He then proceeded to do that. My heart is also full of thanks for all the people I have known and loved, tens of thousands of them – my family, students, colleagues, friends, parishioners… I wish to follow my grandson’s lead: consider yourselves hugged!

Bald Eagle

Diane and I once were asked to be “Mom” and “Dad” for a CORE weekend, a weekend similar to a Cursillo weekend, but adapted for young adults 18-25. I remember the first prep meeting we had with the team members who were to play an active role as leaders (big brothers and big sisters) during the weekend. I had no previous experience moderating a group in that age range and I felt unsure as to how to go about it. At the beginning of the meeting, it was also obvious that the team leaders also felt a bit self-conscious and uneasy. Instinctively, I realized I had to do something to break the ice and lighten things up. I, therefore, took on a solemn air and started speaking, “I have a confession to make. There is something about me that you need to know. Those of you with a keen sense of observation may already suspect it, but I still think I should have it out in the open. I am bald.” The whole group burst out laughing, tension was dissipated, and we had a very good meeting.

You’ve probably heard this joke: “God made only a few perfect heads. The others he covered with hair.” The joke is often told by someone who is self-conscious about his baldness or who is concerned about losing his hair. I am no longer self-conscious about my baldness. It is part of who I have been for over 40 years. I like being bald. I once wrote an article in French entitled, “Of bald heads and other wonders that God made.” That title was not an attempt at being facetious. I believe God makes only perfect heads. They are sometimes covered with hair and sometimes not.

Frogs!

 

I was supervising my grandson Victor yesterday while he was participating in a virtual science class. The topic was the life cycle of frogs. I went over with him the vocabulary related to the development of frogs from egg to adult frog. When I got to the last stage - "adult frog" - he said, "Frogs can't be adults. They are much too small!"