On June 8 weekday Masses were resumed. Masses were celebrated at St. Joseph’s church Monday through Saturday at 8.30 am. On the very first day 23 people showed up enthusiastically. Eventually the average attendance slimed down to 7 to 10 persons. On the 4th of July weekend Masses began. The average attendance per Mass has been less than 30 persons. One weekend Mass is live streamed for those who cannot attend Mass in the church.
It seems people are still fearful of transmission of this virus; waiting for the right vaccine; anticipating abating of number of cases in all States; and repeal of mandatory social distancing and face masks. God alone knows the time when we will be free of these fears and anxieties.
Meanwhile I have been reflecting on my life and of others during the past five months. With restrictions such as social distancing, face masks, limited face to face communication, travel prohibitions, increasing online dependence and uncertainty about future, our lives seem to have become less pleasant and more burdensome. Blaming it on someone or some place or nature or God won’t bring any solution. We thought we could sculpt our own life, our time and our future. Contrarily life, time and future are eluding the grasp of everybody.
While reading and watching the escalating number of deaths, distress clouded my mind so much so that I began to wonder if I would become another addition to that number. I could have been; who knows? Perhaps you too might have gone through this distress.
Now my mind is clear. The lesson I am learning through this process is this: I am stuck. Let me not look back or look forward. No more intellectual gymnastics, reasonable assumptions, strategic planning or establishing systems. Let me go above the clouds. Let me be still, entirely open and awaiting what is to come. For I am not sure of what God is going to bring about at the end of the day.
However, I am excited about it. I am waiting to see the emergence of that newness which will refresh all our lives, our governments, our cultures, our church, our educational systems, our families and all other institutions.
We appear to be in a lengthier Advent season waiting with hope for joy and peace. Advent always ends up in Christmas. Hope is the key. In one of my songs I visualized a boat without oars, floating along the flow of the river. It trusts the river and hopes that one day it will reach the shore of bliss never dreamt before.
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Charles ValentinoPosted on 8/03/20
Matthew Kelly states in his book “Rediscover Catholicism” that his fourth-grade teacher introduced the class to the following poem written by Myra B. Welch. He goes on to say that his understanding of the poem was, at that time, shallow - “perhaps because one must experience some of life’s hard knocks to truly appreciate the full meaning.” He concludes with the observation that “amazing things are possible if we allow the Master to lay his hands on our lives.”
The Touch of the Master’s Hand
‘Twas battered and scared, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But held it up with a smile.
“What am I bidden, good folks,” he cried,
“Who’ll start the bidding for me?”
“A dollar, a dollar,” then two! Only two?
“Two dollars, and who’ll make it three?”
“Three dollars, once; three dollars twice;
Going for three…” But no,
From the room, far back, a grey-haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow;
Then, wiping the dust from the old violin,
And tightening the loose strings,
He played a melody pure and sweet
As a caroling angel sings.
The music ceased, and the auctioneer,
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said, “What am I bid for the old violin?”
And held it up with the bow.
“A thousand dollars, and who’ll make it two?
Two thousand! And who’ll make it three?
Three thousand, once; three thousand twice;
And going and gone,” said he.
The people cheered, but some of them cried,”
We do not quite understand
What changed its worth?” Swift came the reply:
“The touch of the master’s hand.”
And many a man with life out of tune,
And battered and scarred with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd
Much like the old violin.
A “mess of potage,” a glass of wine;
A game – and he travels on.
He is “going” once, and “going” twice,
He’s “going” and almost “gone.”
But the Master comes and the foolish crowd
Never can quite understand
The worth of a soul and the change that’s wrought
By the touch of the master’s hand.
We all have the opportunity to rise “above the clouds” as Father Peter suggests. Let us assist each other in this endeavor by turning away from the seemingly overwhelming conflicts of the present day and allow our Eternal Father the to speak to us through His Loving Son and animate our every thought, word and action with the promptings of the Holy Spirit.
Charles ValentinoPosted on 7/31/20
The following material was taken from Matthew Kelly’s book Rediscover Catholicism, A Spiritual Guide to Living with Passion and Purpose. This expanded second edition was published in 2010 with an Imprimatur. The first edition of the book was published in 2002 with the title Rediscovering Catholicism. Highly recommended for personal reflection or group discussion.
Imagine this.
You’re driving home from work next Monday after a long day. You turn on your radio and you hear a brief report about a small village in India where some people have suddenly died, strangely, of a flu that has never been seen before. It’s not influenza, but four people are dead, so the Centers for Disease Control is sending some doctors to India to investigate.
You don’t think too much about it – people die every day – but coming home from church the following Sunday you hear another report on the radio, only now they say it’s not four people who have died, but thirty thousand, in the back hills of India. Whole villages have been wiped out and experts confirm this flu is a strain that has never been seen before.
By the time you get up Monday morning, it’s the lead story. The disease is spreading. It’s not just India that is affected. Now it has spread to Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq, and northern Africa, but it still seems far away. Before you know it, you’re hearing this story everywhere. The media have now coined it “the mystery flu.” The President has announced that he and his family are praying for the victims and their families, and are hoping for the situation to be resolved quickly. But everyone is wondering how we are ever going to contain it.
That’s when the President of France makes an announcement that shocks Europe: He is closing the French borders. No one can enter the country, and that’s why that night you’re watching a little bit of CNN before going to bed. Your jaw hits your chest when a weeping woman’s words are translated into English from a French news program: There’s a man lying in a hospital in Paris dying of the mystery flu. It has come to Europe.
Panic strikes. As best they can tell, after contracting the disease, you have it for a week before you even know it, then you have four days of unbelievable symptoms, and then you die.
The British close their borders, but it’s too late. The disease breaks out in Southampton, Liverpool, and London, and on Tuesday morning the President of the United States makes the following announcement: “Due to a national-security risk, all flights to and from the United States have been canceled. If your loved ones are overseas, I’m sorry. They cannot come home until we find a cure for this horrific disease.”
Within four days, America is plunged into an unbelievable fear. People are wondering, What if it comes to this country? Preachers on television are saying it’s the scourge of God. Then on Tuesday night you are at church for Bible study, when somebody runs in from the parking lot and yells, “Turn on a radio!” And while everyone listens to a small radio, the announcement is made: Two women are lying in a hospital in New York City dying of the mystery flu. It has come to America.
Within hours the disease envelops the country. People are working around the clock, trying to find an antidote, but nothing is working. The disease breaks out in California, Oregon, Arizona, Florida, Massachusetts. It’s as though it’s sweeping in from the borders.
Then suddenly the news comes out: The code has been broken. A cure has been found. A vaccine can be made. But it’s going to take the blood of somebody who hasn’t been infected. So you and I are asked to do just one thing: Go to the nearest hospital and have your blood tested. When we hear the sirens go off in our neighborhood, we are to make our way quickly, quietly, and safely to the hospital.
Sure enough, by the time you and your family get to the hospital it’s late Friday night. There are long lines of people and a constant rush of doctors and nurses taking blood and putting labels on it. Finally, it is your turn. You go first, then your spouse and children follow, and once the doctors have taken your blood they say to you, “Wait here in the parking lot for your name to be called.” You stand around with your family and neighbors, scared, waiting, wondering. Wondering quietly to yourself, What on earth is going on here? Is this the end of the world? How did it ever come to this?
Nobody seems to have had their name called; the doctors just keep taking people’s blood. But then suddenly a young man comes running out of the hospital screaming. He’s yelling a name and waving a clipboard. You don’t hear him at first. “What’s he saying?” someone asks. The young man screams the name again as he and a team of medical staff run in your direction, but again you cannot hear him. But then your son tugs on your jacket and says, “Daddy, that’s me. That’s my name they’re calling.” Before you know it, they have grabbed your boy. “Wait a minute. Hold on!” you say, running after them. “That’s my son.”
“It’s okay,” they reply. “We think he has the right blood type. We just need to check one more time to make sure he doesn’t have the disease.”
Five tense minutes later, out come the doctors and nurses, crying and hugging each other; some of them are even laughing. It’s the first time you have seen anybody laugh in a week. An old doctor walks up to you and your spouse and says, “Thank you. Your son’s blood is perfect. It’s clean, it’s pure, he doesn’t have the disease, and we can use it to make the vaccine.”
As the news begins to spread across the parking lot, people scream and pray and laugh and cry. You can hear the crowd erupting in the background as the gray-haired doctor pulls you and your spouse aside to say, “I need to talk to you. We didn’t realize that the donor would be a minor and we… we need you to sign a consent form.”
The doctor presents the form and you quickly begin to sign it, but then your eye catches something. The box for the number of pints of blood to be taken is empty.
“How many pints?” you ask. That’s when the old doctor’s smile fades, and he says, “We had no idea it would be a child. We weren’t prepared for that.”
You ask him again, “How many pints?” The old doctor looks away and says regretfully, “We are going to need it all!”
“But I don’t understand. What do you mean you need it all? He’s my only son!”
The doctor grabs you by the shoulders, pulls you close, looks you straight in the eyes, and says, “We are talking about the whole world here. Do you understand? The whole world. Please, sign the form. We need to hurry!”
“But can’t you give him a transfusion?” you plead.
“If we had clean blood we would, but we don’t. Please, will you sign the form?”
What would you do?
In numb silence you sign the form because you know it’s the only thing to do. Then the doctor says to you, “Would you like to have a moment with your son before we get started?”
Could you walk into that hospital room where your son sits on a table saying, “Daddy? Mommy? What’s going on?” Could you tell your son you love him? And when the doctors and nurses come back in and say, “I’m sorry, we’ve got to get started now; people all over the world are dying,” could you leave? Could you walk out while your son was crying out to you, “Mom? Dad? What’s going on? Where are you going? Why are you leaving? Why have you abandoned me?”
The following week, they hold a ceremony to honor your son for his phenomenal contribution to humanity… but some people sleep through it, others don’t even bother to come because they have better things to do, and some people come with a pretentious smile and pretend to care, while others sit around and say, “This is boring!” Wouldn’t you want to stand up and say, “Excuse me! I’m not sure if you are aware of it or not, but the amazing life you have, my son died so that you could have that life. My son died so that you could live. He died for you. Does that mean nothing to you?”
Perhaps that is what God wants to say.
Father, seeing it from your eyes should break our hearts. Maybe now we can begin to comprehend the great love you have for us.