The Thin Veil Between Heaven and Earth

This will be my last posting of 2012 – a year that saw me travel to Ireland for Notre Dame on several occasions, a year that saw my eldest get married, a year for me and my wife to make the pilgrimage of a lifetime, a year when I heard my grandson say "Papa" for the first time. I'll not rank these in order of importance; wonder should not need to concern itself with rankings.

But I write today from yet another remarkable place: Vail, Colorado. Michele and I, along with Father Peter Rocca, c.s.c., came out here several days ago to provide liturgical support and sacred song for a wedding celebration – the daughter of our dear friends John and Mary Rosenthal. It has been more than forty years since I was here, and walking through this village, bedecked with sparkling lights in fir trees and skiers flying down the slopes, provided an aura of holiday joy to the events of the weekend.

A couple of days before the wedding, I wrote to the father of the bride, and being great friends with him, offered up a little advice: delegate well! And along with this, offered an observation which has long been felt in my heart. "At a wedding," I wrote, "the veil between heaven and earth is stretched very thin. It is the closest we might come to heaven on this side."

Watching the events of the weekend – the joyous gathering of the clans, the way the cousins (yay, Bax sisters!) threw themselves into the singing of solos and psalms, the feast of sumptuous food that was lavishly placed before us, the overflowing tears of joy and happiness, the crazy dancing late into the night (close your eyes right now and hear Neil Diamond's Sweet Caroline... so good! so good! so good!) – all these things seemed to me to be one amazing foretaste of the heavenly banquet, where love is continually overflowing, where the holy mountain witnesses a feast that never ends.

But along with all these holy and blessed things, I would reverentially add the tears of a father who walks his daughter down the aisle. Few things in life, I think come close to the power of such a thing. It is not a long moment: depending on the length of the church nave, it could only amount to about a minute in the span of life. But in those sixty seconds, an entire lifetime comes into perspective: your daughter's first mastering of a two-wheeled bicycle; her first communion day; her first report card; her first date, first prom; driving her off to college for the first time. All of these moments and many, many more, all crowding into those steps down the aisle. It is astounding that the human heart could hold such extraordinary memories.

But hold them we do. And they make our lives worth living. And at the end of the year, when memories and looking back and looking forward come into all-too-clear focus, it is this that fills my heart tonight – the ability of our souls to hold all memories dear, even to the point where our very beings overflow and tears are the result.

I am not concerned with resolutions. Let the tabloids have their time with those. My New Year's Eve thoughts are with memories themselves: how they shape us, how we choose to love, how we let go of faults and failings, how we choose to go on from here.

This weekend's wedding gave me much to celebrate, much to ponder, and more than enough spiritual fodder to keep this pilgrim's pen occupied. And my hope for all of you, as we head into 2013: attend a wedding or two. And delight in the thin veil between heaven and earth.

Rage, Against the Night

Some people might think that the halcyon quads of Notre Dame protect it from all those dark things that lurk outside its walls: death, disease, loneliness, failure, divorce, unemployment.

But walk around this campus for a few hours, or, like me, spend a little time with our students, and you find that these realities are impinging on lives here as much as anywhere else.

And every Thursday, when the Folk Choir ends its rehearsals with intentional prayer – then you really do hear about all the things that are in the hearts and souls of our young people.

This is how it happens, every week:
One of our students (this year it's Francis) comes up and lights a trio of candles before the icon of the Madonna and Child (This image is very important to us, as it was given to the choir by the monks of Gethsemani Abbey). Then the lights go out, and we are surrounded by darkness and the candlelight before Mother and Child.

We sing "Day Is Done" – as we have for the past twenty-five years. And then, after a little quiet, the intentions begin to pour forth: "For my dad, who lost his job." "For the loneliest person on campus tonight." "For the men of Michigan City prison." "For a friend from my high school, who just committed suicide." "For my uncle, who was just diagnosed with cancer."

Every week, the litany of needs pours forth. In the quiet of that rehearsal room, week in and week out, the intentions are named.

This past month, it's been a little different. Just before prayer, one of our seniors had asked if he could take the podium. He came forward, slowly, and pulled out a letter to the choir.

He wrote the letter because what he had to say would've been impossible to deliver off the cuff. He had been diagnosed with a brain tumor. Chances are he would be looking at surgery, perhaps in the next couple of months. He had lost feeling on half of his face.

And then he spoke of the love he had for the choir, of how important it was to share this news with the people he loved and loved to sing with. He spoke of how, if he had to walk such a valley, how he couldn't conceive of facing it without all those loving faces in that room.

Then he sat down.

And, again, as always, the lights went out, and we sang "Day Is Done." It was sung softly, but from my place at the podium I was overwhelmed by the quiet strength, the utterly gentle but fierce protection blanketed over our choir by that old Welsh hymn.

Since that moment, we've had others – another operation in the choir to remove the threat of cancer, a former member of the ensemble who suddenly but inexplicably had a stroke, a family member who was hospitalized for a week.

These are the realities. But there are other realities, too – powerful ones. Like what happened when that young man sat back down after announcing his tumor. The lights went out – but the arms reached out as well. As we moved from verse to verse, and my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, I could see arms and hands strongly but gently placed on the young man's shoulders.

We are rocketing right now into the season of Advent, and those who know campus life know that this quiet season is anything else but on Our Lady's campus. But in the here and now, as life slips from the trees and solstice begins to knock on our door, there is that amazing thing that Christians keep deep in their souls – their rage against the night, their steady stance against the darkness. It is the Easter Vigil, every day – our chance to light the Paschal fire in the hearts of those we love, those whom we care for.

Even at night, the day may be done. But Love and Light are never very far away.

And the Saints Will Dance

Tomorrow night, the Notre Dame Folk Choir will sponsor their annual Concert for the Holy Cross Missions, and this year, we're pulling out all the stops – for Africa.

The Concert for the Missions is a longstanding tradition (at least, in the world of Notre Dame, where anything that's done more than once is put into that category). We've been raising money for the Congregation for almost twenty years, and the support of our assemblies has reached out to Bangladesh, Haiti, India, Uganda – even the House of Brigid in Wexford, an apostolate close to the hearts of the Folk Choir.

And in that time, the total contributions are approaching nearly a hundred thousand dollars. A wonderful witness from the campus and those who listen to our work.

This year's concert has us singing some choir favorites: "Jina La Bwana," and "Come to the Living Stone" are great examples of pieces our students love. But we're adding some new twists as well – a fabulous arrangement of "Walk Together, Children" by Moses Hogan, and a piece the choir has been dying to learn for a while – an a cappella arrangement of "Baba Yetu" (Zulu for "The Lord's Prayer"). When we announced it was going to be learned, the choir gave an ovation!

Pat Reidy, c.s.c., who has spent a good amount of time on the Dark Continent, will be giving a bit of insight into evangelical efforts in and around Kampala, Uganda. Here's a picture of Pat with some of the students of St. Jude's school in Bugembe:

Our goal tomorrow night is to fill our beloved Basilica with so much joy that the saints of our stained glass windows will be dancing as well! It's almost impossible to stay put when those drums begin!

To those of you who plan on being in attendance, thanks for joining us! To those who wish they could be there and cannot – support our brethren in Holy Cross by sending a donation along to me! I'll make sure your contribution makes it directly over to Africa.

And to my choir, who seems to have this affinity for joyful music of every continent: make those saints dance tomorrow night!

Changin' Up the Repertoire

For those of you who check in with me occasionally, you know that usually my hands are wrapped around a Martin guitar, and my repertoire is typically focused on liturgical material: everything from traditional hymn tunes on the guitar to my own work.

But this week, I've been working with an astute, attentive, precocious, talented young musician.

The prodigy I am speaking of:
my grandson.

So, it's been a big switch from Make of Our Hands A Throne and I Want to Walk As a Child of the Light to a more formidable repertoire. I've had to change gears into classics like Make Believe Town and The Marvelous Toy.

(These, by the way, are from the epic album, Peter, Paul and Mommy. The album was so named because Mary's young daughter, Erica, would always introduce the trio this way. And – further proof of this trio's amazing abilities – they recorded the thing live in a kindergarten classroom. You can hear the squeals of the kids and the joy of the teachers, unedited, on this fabulous collection.)

I am convinced, after this week, that any church musician worth his or her salt should spend time, regularly, with 18-month olds. Size 2T's don't put up with a lot of bull. You either have the goods or you don't. Your music either delights them or it doesn't. There is no in-between.

So I had a ball this week, on fall break, with my wonderful daughter Jessica and her husband Drew (who teaches on the musical faculty at Appalachian State University). Now, to be fair, I judge them both to be extraordinary parents (I mean, really, who else puts their kids to bed by letting them watch YouTube videos of flash mob versions of Ravel's Bolero or Mozart's Lacrimosa?).

So for all you budding church musicians – and for those of us who've been around the block and the cycle of liturgical seasons a bit – it's good to remember that, as Jesus once said, "unless you be like one of these, you don't stand a chance of getting into the kingdom."

Let those who cannot laugh at themselves.... beware!

Repeating the Sounding Joy

Many, many years ago, when I was a young and inexperienced Campus Minister at Saint Michael's College in Winooski, Vermont, I met a Sister of Mercy who had a profound effect on my stance as a lay person working with young adults. A profound effect – even though I didn't quite know it at the time.

Her name was (and is) Sister Anne Curtis, and she hailed from Rochester, New York. She's one of those humble, courageous, warrior saints, a woman of great grace, moving quietly among the faithful. We used to have long conversations, the two of us, on how to engage young people in the faith.

I vividly remember, even after more than thirty years, a dialog the two of us had about ministry, where we were trying to narrow down our ideas and our enthusiasms into a single word.

"For me," said my friend Anne, "the most important word is Joy. It is the most important aspect of my religious life."

And now, almost two generations later, I am able to say, in agreement with Sister Anne Curtis, R.S.M., that indeed, the most important word in my own philosophy of ministry is also: Joy.

Joy makes faith real. Joy gives us something far more tangible to sink our teeth into, something far more important than any of the trappings this world can offer. Joy makes the gospel a living reality, a vital stance. A joyful liturgy can turn even the most disastrous scenario into an opportunity for hope.

Even sorrow cannot escape the grasp of Joy, for sorrow is, as Gibran once said, "your joy unmasked." Sorrow still implies a deeply lived life, a passionate stance. We should not fear sorrow. Fear, rather, and keep at bay their secular cousins: apathy and cynicism. For they are poison.

Over the years, I have become more and more convinced that joy holds the key to prayerful liturgy. Joy puts the gospel into an unbridled stance of prophetic witness, a chance to say: "I DARE YOU to stay on the sidelines!" Few people can resist Joy.

These past two months at Notre Dame have been some of the most profoundly demanding of my years in Campus Ministry. Yet, throughout these weeks, if there is anything that has been my compass point in the midst of the labors, it has been the ability to cling to Joy. Every liturgy we have done, from Dublin Castle to Maynooth Seminary, from Mepkin and my eldest son's wedding to Notre Dame's Freshman Orientation Mass, from the Game Day Mass at Holy Name Cathedral last Saturday to the Board of Trustees Mass yesterday morning in a small, carpeted conference room – for every one of these, the compelling invitation is a call to Joy.

Last week, we sang a hymn that has a sly last verse – a sneak reference to the Joy of the Incarnation, a quick allusion to the hallowed Christmas Carol "Joy to the World." It's an ingenious way to remind us that the Joy of the Nativity encompasses a far greater landscape than the days surrounding the winter solstice. Here is the text:

Gracious Spirit, help us summon other guests to share this feast
Where triumphant Love will welcome those who had been last and least.
There no more will envy blind us nor will pride our peace destroy,
As we join with saints and angels to repeat the sounding joy.

"Repeat the sounding joy." That is what we do. Repeat it, practice it, get it strong in our hearts and on our lips and in our minds. Repeat it over and over again, like a song we're rehearsing, until we sing it well – really well.

In all my years with my musicians in the Notre Dame Folk Choir, I truly believe that we have set our hearts on the right thing – giving people, weekly, the chance to be joyful about their faith.

Anne, you were right. Whether by your prayers for me or based on that momentous conversation years ago, you have kept me on the right path. And for that you have my thanks.

It is Joy that makes all the difference.