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Thursday, August 2, 2018

Our Lady of the Angels



Blessed feast of Our Lady of the Angels (Aug 2) the "Portiuncula-Little Portion" chapel rebuilt by St Francis. This poor little chapel is the mother church for all Franciscans!


Info on the special indulgence today:
https://www.catholicnewsagency.com/news/friar-lauds-indulgence-as-a-way-to-connect-with-st-francis



Official liturgical texts:
http://franciscanfriars.com/august-2-our-lady-of-the-angels/


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Monday, July 30, 2018

The Rest of the Story - Bl Solanus Casey

Prayed for all of you at his tomb this morning (more pics below)


Today is the first official feast day for Blessed Solanus Casey. I prayed for all of you at his tomb in Detroit this morning. He has some really great advice for all of us, not to be missed! Podcast by Fr. Luke Fletcher, CFR.


https://soundcloud.com/franciscan-friars/the-rest-of-the-story









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https://www.iheart.com/podcast/from-the-friars-catholic-christian-spirituality-28612606/

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https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/from-the-friars/id1100357971


Google Play
https://play.google.com/music/listen#/ps/I7u2fjhkolw2aa235eto5siywza


Stitcher
http://www.stitcher.com/podcast/from-the-friars


Player FM
https://player.fm/series/from-the-friars-catholic-christian-spirituality












Monday, July 23, 2018

Listening


The only way I can have a conversation with my nephews, ages 18 and 12, is if I take away their phones. Even when I do that, eye contact is kept to a minimum and their bodies appear unable to relax without a piece of technology in their hand. Unfortunately, this is becoming true for many adults as well. In our age of smart phones, tablets, and social media, it seems that we spend more time listening to devices than to another person.

When I was in school studying spiritual direction, my teachers continually emphasized that spiritual direction is primarily a ministry of listening. After the lectures each morning, we were given the opportunity to practice our listening. Each student was paired up with another student. One was given the role of the director and the other was the directee. The directee was asked to share the contents of their prayer from the previous 24 hours, while the director was told merely to listen. The only time the director was allowed to talk is when he would summarize, in a concise manner, the content of what the directee was sharing. The reason for this was simply to make sure the director really heard, i.e., was listening, to what the directee was actually saying.

As I listened to all of my directees, who varied in age, occupation and vocation, I immediately realized a problem. I was only half listening, while my other half was problem solving. I wanted to give my directees advice, quote something from a saint, or impress them with my knowledge of the Bible and spirituality. If it was a younger person, I wanted to tell them my experience and what happened to me when I was their age. If someone began to cry, I wanted to console them and tell them it was going to be alright. What I really wanted, I realize now, was for them to stop telling their story and for me to start telling mine. 

Listening to another person, I learned, means to receive the other person as they are, in their joy and sorrow, happiness and pain, with their strengths and weaknesses, without turning their life into a problem that needs to be solved by me.

It means, essentially, to accept the mystery of the other person, and to allow that person to remain a mystery, without reducing them to our human categories, labels and stereotypes, which, unfortunately, we often resort to.

A few years ago I made an eight-day directed retreat with a priest who had a reputation for being a gifted spiritual director. After we met on the first evening, we had decided that I would pray four hours a day and meet with him each evening to discuss the contents of my prayer. On the second evening I met him in his room and he asked, “How was your prayer today?” I started sharing with him how my prayer was going and I would pause at times because I thought he would want to interject a correction, offer some words of wisdom or give me some advice. He was completely silent. At the end our time he said, “Ok, see you tomorrow.”

Even though he didn’t say anything, I knew that I was sincerely listened to. I did not feel judged, labeled, or analyzed. I did feel, however, accepted, in a way I may never have before. As my retreat continued, our meetings followed the same format. “How was your prayer today?” he would ask, and then I would start talking. Since I wasn’t expecting him to interrupt me anymore, I was given the freedom to explore all that God was doing inside my soul. Without projecting his own experience of God or life on me, I was enabled the freedom to discover my own. Needless to say, a whole new world was unearthed inside of me and through this spiritual director’s listening presence, the mystery of God’s ways and His healing became a tangible reality that I continue to marvel at many years later.

I have come to believe that not only is spiritual direction primarily a ministry of listening, but that life is primarily a ministry of listening. Whether it is prayer, marriage, or friendship, listening to another person—God, a spouse or a friend— becomes an opportunity for grace. Of course there are moments in life when listening may not be enough. A correction, a disagreement or perhaps a command needs to happen. What I have learned, surprisingly, is that even when those difficult moments come along, if I have genuinely listened to the other person, the reception of that correction or command is at least considered more thoughtfully.

The person who is being listened to acquires the freedom and the space to struggle with his life without immediately feeling judged or analyzed. The listener has the opportunity to participate in God’s patient and unconditional love. The challenge for both of them is learning how to do this in a world filled with noise and distraction. The guide for both of them is the One who always listens to us.

+ Fr. Jeremiah, CFR
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Tuesday, July 17, 2018

Being a Christian is Risky




           I am glad you’re okay, honey; but I am also glad you took the risk. It’s a good word for a man to hear from his mother. It had been some fifteen years since I wiggled-on a water ski.At the first go, I tumbled hard. The water was as flat as a window pane—cloudy and grey like the evening sky through it. The day had spent itself throwing rain at Lake Hopatcong keeping the boats lassoed to the pilings and the boaters lounging in their slippers. The last raindrops fell late in the afternoon rippling a calm into the water. Nobody seemed to notice but us. 


I popped up straightaway at the second effort. Skidding left over the wake, I worked my ski wide, if timidly, through the slick untroubled slate. The speedboat sped me fast into my youth—Buckeye Lake, Arbutus Lake—every lake supported the ski with such unassuming grace. So many clean skies. So many oblong circles. So many spills. It was a game of equilibrium; it was a game of speed.


I tried, vainly (in both senses of the word),to kick up a rooster tail as I cut back toward the middle, tripped on the wake, and cut headfirst into the grey water. I botched the third try; took one more brief spin and, in kindness to my tremulous quadriceps, let the handled fly. It went skipping behind the smalling boat as I sunk easily—exhausted—into the soft and spacious hold of lake. It was quiet in the water, in that grey world, floating. 

          It wasn’t until I was back in the boat and the tanks were filling for the wakeboarders that our friend noticed blood at the back of my head. I was cut. In one of my tussles with gravity, the ski had bit me. Seven staples later and I was back at the house with a cut of steak on the tines of a fork and several spears of asparagus waiting on the white plate.


Thus, mom’s remark: “I’m glad you’re okay, honey; but I am also glad you took the risk.” There is a lot to be said for taking a risk. For one, on a natural level, it helps us find the narrow road of courage between the wider routes of foolhardiness or cowardice.One has to live the spectrum to know where he stands within it—what a certain situation calls for and what it doesn’t. A second (and related) reason is spiritual. To put it frankly, being a Christian is risky: the body will suffer; the ego, certainly, will suffer; the soul too suffers violence as it pulls away from its sinful inclinations. For the servant is not greater than the Master, and the Master was crucified. And that’s the other thing—somehow, a risk inspires trust—once we stand on the other side of what we thought would be (or even what, in fact, turned out to be) a harrowing experience, there is Christ. Even if we’re bruised or cut or worse, there is Christ with his own bruises, cuts or better.



My skiing accident is no great example of some noble and courageous risk. However, one does learn. There is something just and free in flying across the stillness of a lake on one skidding plank of wood. Something calls forth a whoop from the lungs. And as I made that cut toward the middle, I was seized by the more-than-this-world in this world. And, as it happened, that is when this world cut me. We need not take every risk, but if we fail to take any, we risk living trapped within the confines of our mortality, and that, I think, is a risk not worth taking.

+ Br. Joseph Michael Fino, CFR
Yonkers, NY
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Tuesday, July 10, 2018

Stillness - An Icon of God



Podcast by Fr. Jeremiah, CFR. Stillness is a disposition of reverent attention on God. In our hectic, faced paced and competitive world practicing stillness before God reminds us not only who we are but that God is paying attention to every detail of our lives. Listen to learn more!

Friday, July 6, 2018

Wednesday, June 27, 2018

Suffering Revisited

"Without even realizing it, I had reduced Jesus to the equivalent of an antibiotic..."


When I entered religious life at 23-years-old, I was passionate, idealistic and determined.  I said goodbye to the world without blinking an eye and threw myself wholeheartedly into my vocation.  I devoured the teachings and perfectly obeyed all the rules of my community and the Church.  Though it wasn’t my primary motivation, a part of me thought if I just did what was right and believed what was true, God would protect me from suffering.  After all, isn’t this the promise God makes through the Psalmist, “Because you have made the Lord your refuge, the Most High your habitation, no evil shall befall you, no scourge come near your tent” (Psalm 91:9-10)? 



 Within the first two years of my religious vocation, life unleashed a series of events that led me to a crisis of faith.  One of my best friends from college, a devout and beautiful woman named Nicole, was diagnosed with cancer at age 23.  Six months later, filled with shock and sorrow, I was reunited with all of our friends from college at her funeral, as we asked God why.  



My mother, who was already ill at this time, was slipping deeper and deeper into depression.  As the days drew on, she lost the desire to live, wanting only to be reunited with her parents, whom she so desperately missed, despite having a family of her own who needed her.  Even though I told myself that God was all that I needed, I was still, in many respects, a little boy who needed a mother to console him.   


  
Living in a religious community, I not only experienced “how good and pleasant it is when brothers live in unity,” (Psalm 133:1) but I also encountered the misunderstandings, annoyances and tensions that are part of that unity.  Despite the many hours of prayer, the grace of the sacraments, and strong fraternal support, nonetheless forgiveness, charity and generosity were not getting any easier.  In fact, in some ways, they were becoming more difficult.



I examined myself repeatedly and thought, “I must be doing something wrong.  Perhaps I need to fast more, pray more or make another general confession.”  I sought counsel from books and spiritual directors believing that there must be a solution to my problems.  Once I found it, I thought, these trials would cease.  


     
After much searching, I began to ask, “Is this what life with God looks like?”  Suddenly, one day with this question echoing in my heart, I heard a voice that said, “Yes, this is exactly what life with God looks like.”  And then came the real stinger: “Do you think that you are exempt from human suffering because of your vocation to religious life?”  Even though Jesus had clearly said, “If any man would come after me, let him deny himself and take us his cross daily and follow me” (Luke 9:23), part of me believed that those words did not apply in my situation.



Without even realizing it, I had reduced Jesus to the equivalent of an antibiotic.  If I just follow the prescription: prayer, fasting, obedience, etc. then all of this suffering would disappear and I would return again to good health.  Without question, Jesus is our refuge and our physician, but he protects us and heals us in a way much different than our limited minds can comprehend.    


  
Looking back at those first two years of religious life, I realized that the suffering I encountered during that time was actually therapeutic for my soul and led me to an intimacy with God I had not yet encountered.  In those moments of suffering, and all the many ones that have occurred since, I am reminded of an important truth:  God is bigger than this world.  Without diminishing the importance of our earthly lives, our destiny lies beyond the limits of this world.  “For here we have no lasting city” (Hebrews 13:14).     


    
Despite our best efforts to avoid suffering, no one is exempt.  Too often we think that suffering is a sign that one has done something wrong, or that if that I just try harder it will go away.  Many people who have just experienced a conversion, or, like I was, beginning the initial stages of a vocation, assume this is true.  I realized, however, that this picture is incomplete.  By using God simply to avoid trials I was living only for myself.  Suffering, oddly enough, has enabled me to live for God.  


+ Fr. Jeremiah, CFR
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Sunday, June 24, 2018

The Paradox is Promising





     Few of us approach the scaffold willingly. As the tender hand of providence nudges us toward the cross, we dig up friction. We flatten our soles to the dirt of this earth and press. Christian spirituality makes much about surrender. The disciple of Christ is meant to loose his will to the wind of the Spirit (of which is it written: you cannot tell from where it comes and to where it goes) and surrender his desires in order to follow Christ, to live after the manner of Jesus. An example from the archive—it’s a prayer I penned in the initial years of religious life:

Come Holy Spirit, carry me.
Fasten me firm to your fancies.
Upon your whims, I plant my feet,
Let us fly from here.

     From where? From the land of my own will. A lovely idea. It is only a matter of time, however, before the scourge scours the flesh of God and we, his disciples, scatter. Surrender is a radical idea. To go unfightingly toward death? It’s not natural. When the chalice of his passion was pressed to his lips, even Jesus pushed back. “Father, let this cup pass from me.” And yet, the courageous qualifier: “nevertheless, not my will but yours be done.” I push back more.

     In Honduras we slaughtered a pig. The brother whiffed the sweet spot and landed the axe-head slanted near ear. The pink creature freaked. Four-hundred pounds of hoarse squeals will root you. The sow went wild. Breaking the chains, her stout hooves tore into the earth hauling all her fat rage in livid circles till the brother, two hands to the shaft, swung the axe again. Dead between her eyes.

  I’m a bit that way. These years of conversion have found me stubbornly fighting for my life. It would have been easier to surrender from the get. I have heard stories of teenage saints sweetly swooning into the Father’s arms, saints anesthetized by ecstasy just before the heifer, say, gores their fragrant bodies, saints born with a perfect pater noster poised upon their suckling lips. Hagiography, I’m afraid, can mislead the unacquainted. It’s a different style of writing, a different way of remembering. Being a disciple of Christ is never so easy as not to hurt—any saint will affirm that—but with Christ the hurt is never final. Resurrection happens. Yes, it happens but it happens only inside a death. Unless a grain of wheat die, says the Lord, it remains but a single grain. 


We, like any creature, once we sense the life we are accustomed to living is actually in danger (and I tell you Christianity is a danger to our lives) most of us will fight to save it. Please God we don’t fight too well. Although its very logic is difficult to unpack, the paradox is promising: he who loses his life, gains it. But, my friends, you do realize it has to be lost. The question each of us will spend our lives answering is just how much of our will can we stand to lose? Or, if you’d rather, how much life can we stand to gain?

+ Br. Joseph Michael Fino, CFR
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Tuesday, June 19, 2018

Authority of the Author



In the midst of the cacophony of competing voices, the voice of God breaks through the confusion and offers sure guidance. The practice of prayer is essential to hearing that voice. Podcast by Fr. Luke Fletcher, CFR. Listen to learn more!


https://soundcloud.com/franciscan-friars/authority-of-the-author





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Tuesday, June 5, 2018

The Other



Everyday we stand before an unsolvable problem: life. The people we encounter, the events that occur and the places we are led, often leave us frustrated and confused. If we are honest, most of the time we don’t understand why things happen the way they do. This can lead some people to conclude that we are alone, that life is only a series of random events with no rhyme or reason.
Faith, on the other hand, views things differently. Without denying the puzzling nature of life, faith attests that beyond the darkness, beyond the veil of this world, there is an “Other,” who not only guides the universe but also guides each one of us. This Other not only guides our lives, but also loves us in a way we cannot comprehend.
I was reminded of this truth during an unexpected conversation in an unusual setting. I had just finished giving a retreat in Dallas, TX and was on my way to Los Angeles, CA for another retreat. As I boarded the plane and sat down, I began to consider how I should spend these next four hours. Typically, flying provides an ideal opportunity to write, because of the minimal amount of interruptions available.
I opened up my computer and began reading my latest reflection. The flight attendants announced that the gates would be closing soon and we should prepare for takeoff. I looked around and noticed that the plane was entirely full, except for the seat next to me. Suddenly, a woman who appeared to be in her late forties with black dyed hair, ripped blue jeans and sunglasses boarded the plane.
“I didn’t think I would make it,” she said to the flight attendant, as she tried to catch her breath.
“Just in time,” she said. “Have a seat. We will be taking off shortly.”
As she sat down next to me, she placed her bag under her seat, pulled out her phone and began fixing her hair. While she buckled her seatbelt, we smiled at each other and I said hello.
“O Wow,” she said. “Are you like a monk?”
Laughing, I said, “Well, sort of. Technically I am friar, a Franciscan and a priest.”
“I’m a Jewish agnostic, she said. “My ex-husband is Muslim and my brother just became a Buddhist.”
“Wow,” I said, “I’m a Christian. Do you know any Hindus? Then we would have all five major world religions represented!”
We both laughed for a few seconds as the plane began to make its way down the runway. During takeoff, she looked at me very seriously and asked, “Would you mind talking?”
“Of course not,” I said, with a smile on my face. I put my computer away and placed it under the seat in front of me. “What would you like to talk about?”
“Well, my name is Joan…” and so it began.
For the next three hours, Joan did the majority of the talking. She was raised in a Jewish home, where faith was more cultural than personal. Her father was always working, leaving her home alone with a mother who was always telling Joan everything that was wrong with her. Desperate for the affection of a father, she began a series of relationships with older men, each one worse than the previous one. Desiring love and acceptance more than an education or a career, she dropped out of college at 20 years old.
Wanting to escape her past, she left Brooklyn and moved to San Francisco in order to begin a new life. After drifting from one job to the next, she finally met a man, whom she described as a “dream come true”, while working as a bartender in the Bay area. Alan, a few years older than Joan, was a successful businessman, who appeared to have his life together. He was young, rich and attractive, and, most importantly, interested in Joan. The two began dating and got married six months later.
Three years into their marriage a secret from Alan’s past came back to haunt him. A drug addiction, that Alan believed he had conquered, came back into his life and Alan began using again. With two small children at home and a husband who was using drugs, Joan turned to alcohol for consolation. Needless to say, their marriage was on the verge of collapsing. Nine months later they got divorced.
When I met Joan on the plane she had just finished a month long rehab program for her drinking. She was anxious to see her two boys again, who stayed with her sister for the last month. As she showed me several pictures of them on her phone, tears came pouring out of her eyes. “I just don’t know what I’m doing,” she said. “I don’t know how to live. I don’t know how to be a mom. I don’t understand life.”
She was interrupted by the flight attendant’s voice over the intercom. We had just begun our descent into LA and we would be landing in a few minutes. Joan took out a tissue from her purse and began wiping her eyes. Looking at me with a smile she said, “Thank you for listening to me.” 

“You’re welcome,” I said. “Thank you for sharing all of that. It takes courage to be that vulnerable.”
“Well,” she said, “If I can’t trust a monk whom can I trust?”
We both laughed.
“Do you mind if I say something Joan?” I asked.
“No, not at all,” she said. “You think I’m crazy, right?”
“Don’t be silly. You’re not any crazier than I am!” I said. “You mentioned that you don’t know what you are doing, that you don’t know how to live and that you don’t know how to be a mom.”
Nodding, she said, “It’s true.”
“Perhaps you don’t have to know,” I said. “Look, here we are at 30,000 feet. How did you get here, after all that you have been through? It wasn’t your family who got you here. It wasn’t your husband, or even you. It seems to me that there is somebody else, an Other, who has been carrying you and has gotten you here to this point.”

“You mean “God?” she said.
“Yes.”
“Every time I hear the word God I think of my mother telling me how pretty all the other young girls were at synagogue and how she wishes I would spend more time on my appearance so I could look like them.”
I closed my eyes out of sadness. “I’m so sorry that was your experience,” I said.

We were both silent for a few moments. “Perhaps the best place to start,” I said, “is with the realization that there must be an Other who cares for you, loves you and is guiding you in your life. If not, then how you are here? How am I here?”

There was a long pause. She looked out the window and I could see in the reflection the tint of a smile on her face.
“This Other” I continued, “is not an idea or some sort of energy out in the universe. He is personal, forgiving and is not obsessed with your past. He is love, and without Him we couldn’t get out of bed in the morning. Life is impossible without an awareness of the love that sustains us. If we want to understand our life then the most sane thing we can do is open ourselves to this Other as best we can, and He will take care of the rest.”
By this point our plane had landed and we were taxing to our gate. We remained in silence for those few moments until the flight attendants announced we could unbuckle our seatbelts and begin exiting the plane. As Joan and I grabbed our bags we walked together out of the plane and into the airport. Before we went our separate ways, she looked at me with tears in her eyes.
“I do believe there is an Other who is sustaining me,” she said. “There has to be, otherwise I don’t know how I would be standing today.”
I smiled, “So do I Joan.”
We hugged goodbye and began to walk in separate directions. A few seconds later I heard her yell, “Hey, Father.”
I turned around.
“Will you pray for me?”
I smiled at her. “Of course I will. Please pray for me to.”
“I will,” she said, as she put her sunglasses on and disappeared into the crowd.

+ Father Jeremiah Myriam Shryock, C.F.R.
Monticello, NY