The Book of Bishops (Chapter One)

 Well, let's start at the very beginning.

And while that may sound very obvious and logical, going back to the very beginning is also going back to the boring part of this saga.

The very beginning goes back to the very first bishop (OK - Archbishop since Detroit is what is called a Metropolitan See which means that other dioceses within the geographical region are under the care and oversight of the bishop who heads the Metropolitan See.)

Told you that this would be the boring stuff!

The Metropolitan See of Detroit includes all the other dioceses of Michigan. That is what makes Detroit an Archdiocese and that is why Detroit has an Archbishop.

Or in more plain and practical language, when the Michigan bishops get together, the head honcho, the one who wears the largest pointy hat would be the Archbishop of Detroit.

And having, hopefully, helped you to understand some hierarchical jargon and politics, now we can dive in and start somewhere near the beginning.

And that would be with the first bishop of Detroit in my lifetime, Edward Aloysius Mooney.

He became the Archbishop of Detroit the year before I was born and he served in that ministry until his death in October, 1958.

He was the lucky one!

During his time as our Archbishop, I was far too young to cause any real waves or even ripples.

Matter of fact, I was so young that my only remembered encounter with him, and by the way in 1948 he was made a Cardinal, was during a visit to my parish church. That visit was a very big deal because it would be the first time that a Cardinal of the Catholic Church would come to SS. Cyril and Methodius Parish on the East Side of Detroit.

In all honesty I cannot remember why he came or what the visit was all about, some sort of ceremonial for sure.

What I do remember was that the Cardinal Archbishop processed from the rectory a full half city block to the church accompanied by parish groups and organizations waving their banners, marching proudly, altar servers in full garb, vested clergy . . .

And the Cardinal in full regalia.

Which meant a magnificent cape with a very lengthy train.

That I do remember because of all possibilities, I was the one chosen to be his train bearer!

I had to wear special vestments for the occasion too.

I walked behind the Cardinal, at the very end of that long and pomp-filled procession.

And I suspect that to this day somewhere in some closet or trunk, tucked away there is still a photo or two of me, little me back then, in my fancy finery walking carefully behind the Cardinal, lifting that extensive train to ensure that not one inch of it touched the ground or got the least bit soiled.

Along the sidewalk, up the stairway, into the church, down the aisle and up to the altar.

And when whatever the occasion for this visit was was finished, reverse the process back to the rectory.

That was my one, sole dealing with the first Archbishop of Detroit in my lifetime.

I shook his hand, probably kissed his ring and someone told him my name. Then I lifted that train and walked - so proudly.

I don't know if I should count that day late in October when his body was brought back to Detroit from Rome. I, like so very many others, stood in a line that snaked around outside the Cathedral, gradually making the way into the building for one final viewing of our late, deceased Archbishop.

He had gone to Rome with much fanfare as a Cardinal about to vote for the next Pope. Pius XII had died and a successor was to be chosen and through our Archbishop Cardinal, Detroit would have a vote in choosing the new pope for the first time in history.

But that was not to be. Edward Cardinal Mooney died suddenly just prior to the opening of the Conclsave. Detroit would have no vote in that election. The deceased would be returned to Detroit for the final farewell.

And I was still too young, too unseasoned to claim anything more than that I once was chosen to be train bearer to the Cardinal Archbishop of Detroit.

Probably because those fancy vestments fit me!

Watch for more in the weeks to come.

The Book of Bishops (Prologue)

 Well, here goes!

Consider this blog to new an introduction, a prologue, if you will, to what lies ahead and the coming weeks. 

It was November, 2018 when I decided to give this blog thing a try. I have a history of writings - articles, columns, stuff like that. And while there have been those voices prompting me to do a book, that has not yet happened and, given that they days grow more and more limited, that book will likely never happen. Matter of fact, somewhere along the line I suggested to my siblings that they should keep a handle on these writings and someday, when all is said and done, they could gather things together, find an interested publisher and reap the royalties for themselves to enjoy.

I may from time to time be inspired to pen a few words, a column, article or blog, but that book tings just seems not to be in me.

However, for those who have followed this blog for any length of time, every now and then some dots can be connected and articles can be grouped together to address some common themes.

And with this blog I am embarking on a rather deliberate grouping together of a series of reflections, writings that I am not just joining together but even giving a title, a canopy, so to speak, to bind them all together, I am calling the coming collection of writings The Book Of Bishops.

Maybe starting this on Pentecost Sunday is what is inspiring this project.

Maybe the fact that, earlier today, after the Pentecost Mass presided over by a real, live bishop, I was bold enough to remark to him that, "Pentecost reminds us that we are all entitled to red; it's not the exclusive domain of you guys!"

Maybeit's realizing that the current bishop of Detroit will be submitting his letter of retirement soon and we will be waiting for word of a new bishop for the Church of Detroit. Maybe that is part of the inspiration behind what is unfolding in this blog.

Maybe it is just a bit of nostalgic reflection that comes with reaching a certain age and stage in life. Time to look back and remember and share some stories, maybe it is that time for me.

Whatever it may be, and it likely may be any number of things, I am going to do some looking back and telling stories. Some, you readers may already have heard and will find yourself familiar with. Some may provide a surprise or two.

Whatever the result . . . here goes!

The Book if Bishops!

I have decided to do some looking back and narrating experiences I have had over my fifty-nine years as a priest (and a couple more before that) uniquely with the various bishops of Detroit.

Counting the time before those fifty-nine years began, I have experienced five bishops of Detroit (Archbishops actually.) True, when counting auxiliary or assistant  bishops, there have been many more but I intend to limit these reflections to the five who were in charge, so to speak, Archbishops.

And as I reflect back, the very fact that I have stories to tell about personal interactions with such as these is its own surprise.

See, when I was ordained, my plan was to minister in the shadows. That would be a way of describing it. As I looked ahead to whatever years I might be given, my assumption was that I would quietly minister, serving as an assistant for maybe twenty, twenty-five years always with someone else in charge. Then, with a sufficient amount of seniority, I would be given a parish, probably a rather minor parish in the outskirts of the Archdiocese where I would quietly spend the remainder of my years.

That was my plan. That was how I saw my life's journey.

Suffice it to say that Someone else had other plans.

Where I assumed that, if my name came up at any time in those hallowed offices Downtown, the bishop would likely say, "Who?"

As it so often turned out in  reality, when my name did come up in those hallowed offices, more often than not the bishop might just respond with something like, "Ohm, him again!"

And so begins The Book of Bishops.

Watch for more in the weeks to come.

The Sound of Silence (and Other Sounds too!)

 Hello, Darkness, my old friend,

I've come to talk with you again.

And so that ballad by Simon and Garfunkel begins.

The Sound of Silence!

How well that seems to capture the memories I hold of many, many Good Fridays.

Silence!

As a youngster, I can recall being told to keep all speech, all words, all sounds to a basic minimum on this day. Good Friday is not a day for noises and sounds. It is and should be, so we were told, a day for quiet and reflection.

Even the radio (Yes! I go back that far, back to when radio was our norm for background sounds. Phonographs were also in play back then. However, no matter the device, radio or phonograph were not to be turned on, not on Good Friday.

It was a day for silence.

Even when television came along, on that one Friday of the year, that dial was not to be touched. That screen was to remain blank.

And when I grew older and was spending those Fridays in the seminary, the rule of the house echoed that of my parents' home - silence. Good Friday meant Grand Silence - nothing spoken, nothing to be heard, nothing to break the stillness of the Silence.

And that was the rule right up to the final year of studies. In that final year we were deacons and many of us on Good Friday were sent off campus to various places to enhance the services in parishes. And because we would be out and about, if necessary, we would be allowed to break that Grand Silence, at least until we got back on campus at day's end.

And if a silence ruled Good Fridays that week called "Holy" seemed to be filled with still other sounds, sounds that still come to me in present Holy Weeks and sounds that, I suspect, many of you, reading this, remember as well. While a Good Friday Silence may or may not have been a part of your days past, you may still remember sounds from your Holy Weeks past as well.

Palm Sunday - palms were blessed, usually only before the main (or High) Mass and for that purpose priest/presider and altar servers gathered outside the church's main entrance and that door was shut. When the palms were blessed, there came a sound.

A knock - but a strange sounding one.

The base of the processional cross was used to strike the door three times, in a sense demanding - "Let us in!"

A strange sound that sharp metal against wood knock.

And then on Thursday, early on the sound of the singing of a triumphant Gloria, a sound not heard for some six weeks, now restored and even enhanced.

It was accompanied by the ringing of bells, every bell available was in play including, if that particular church had a bell tower, the steeple bells. It was a shockingly jubilant sound to be certain!

Which was followed by a somber sound - voices singing through the remainder of the service but singing a cappella. No mighty organ, no other instruments accompanied the voices. Suddenly, the jubilation of that Gloria had faded into an ominous seriousness.

And still another jolt.

At the time we usually did hear bells, now, not bells but a jarring clap of wood striking sharply against wood. Almost as if we were hearing the sound of hammer against nails!

And on Friday - that Day of Silence - still another haunting and memorable sound, shuffling, feet shuffling as young and old, rich and poor, saints and sinners made their way forward to the cross, to touch, to kiss, to weep perhaps, and to remember the ugliness of sin and the wonder of Love.

And then back into the Silence.

And waiting.

Until at last another sound broke through the silence and the darkness of a dark,  dark night.

Exultet!

Rejoice!

This is the Night!

And the storytelling began, stories from history, our history, stories of a God Who chooses not to give up on us! Who wants to wash us clean! Who wants, one day, to welcome us Home!

The God Who even now is giving life to those daffodils and crocuses!

This is the Night of the triumph of the God of Life!

And then another sound.

"I do believe!"

And finally the greatest sound of all, the one that has power to break through every Sound of Silence.

Alleluia!

SURPRISE!!!

 Yes!

That is what some might discover as we enter the holiest of days of Christians. Triduum is now upon us and that means that Lent ends (with the beginning of Mass on Thursday) and our immediate journey into Easter begins.

And on that Thursday that we call "Holy" we are invited to gather and to remember that evening when, before He died, Jesus gathered His closest friends at table with Him.

When we speak of that remembering, most often we speak of what happened in the course of the meal shared at that table. We speak of bread and wine and of those words spoken over the bread and wine. "This is My Body" and "This is My Blood."

Thursday is for remembering the beginning, the institution of Eucharist.

But, if we are paying close enough attention on this most Holy of our Thursdays, we just may be in for a surprise.

At the very heart of the Scriptural Words set out for us on that Thursday evening we hear words from the Gospel of John.

Not Matthew or Mark or Luke but John.

And why might that be a surprise?

Well, if we wanted a recounting of those Words spoken over bread and wine, if we wanted a recounting of the actual institution of Eucharist, we would certainly be better served with Matthew, Mark or Luke.

You see, John never mentions in his Gospel the bread and wine or the words spoken over them.

Matthew, Mark and Luke all contain the narrative. There may be slight variations in these narratives. One version joins the bread and cup, making the words and gestures simultanious while a variant narrative puts the sharing of the meal in between the actions and words of bread and cup.

But John's Gospel mentions nothing!

And this is the Gospel chosen for us on this holiest of our Thursdays!

Instead of hearing anything about "This is My . . ." what we do hear from John is the narrative of the washing of the disciples feet by Jesus.

We could have been given any of the other Gospel narratives or we even could have alternated among the three based on which was our reading source for that particular year. With either of these scenarios we would be hearing about the institution of the Eucharist on the very evening when we gather, supposedly, to remember the institution of the Eucharist.

But that sort of logic is put aside and we are, instead, given a surprise.

John's narrative of the washing of the feet! (John 13:1 - 17)

And very obviously that Gospel selection is a very deliberate choice.

We need to remember what is at the very heart of Eucharist - the one on that night before Jesus died and the one for which we gather on this Thursday and every other one as well.

Eucharist is all about washing feet!

In Eucharist Jesus shows His willingness to serve us, each and every one of us. He bends low and humbles Himself for our sake. He gives His whole self for our sake.

On the cross He continues to show His willingness to serve us, each and every one of us. He is made lowly and humbled, treated like a common criminal for our sake. He gives His whole self for our sake.

And in Eucharist we express our hunger and our willingness to enter into communion with Him.

That communion means, or certainly should mean, that, like Him, as His disciples, we choose to live in union with Him, humbling ourselves in loving service to one another.

And not just to the others with whom we may be comfortable.

We are called to serve as He serves.

No matter if someone is "worthy" or "deserving" or fits this mold or that.

He washed the feet of Judas who would betray Him nd of Peter who would deny Him and of the others who would desert Him.

And He declared from His deathbed, "Father, forgive them. They know not what they do."

He drew no lines, set no boundaries!

The Footwasher calls us to Eucharist, to enter into union with Him and to become, like Him, Footwashers.

What a people we would be, what a Church we would be if we only grabbed those towels and basins and water jugs, and got busy joining our Footwasher!

No Ashes!

 As I write this, Lent is at our doorstep. Starts tomorrow. That would be Wednesday, Ash Wednesday. And I am raising the question - can we actually have Lent without Ashes?

For so many Ash Wednesday has become almost a religious holy day. You just have to get to church nd get those ashes. There is, actually, no such regulation and/or stated obligation but still this thinking is embedded in the minds and hearts of many of the faithful (and even some of the less than faithful.)

And because for so many Lent is so much about those ashes and that smudge mark on the forehead, I raise the question out loud and in print.

Can we actually have Lent without Ashes?

And, no, I am not somehow suggestion that we rid ourselves of those Ashes or of Ash Wednesday. Those Ashes can serve a very important purpose. My question is more about Lent itself.

And this year for me the matter is of real consideration because, come Ash Wednesday, I will not be receiving ashes on my forehead.

A couple of days ago I tested positive for Covid. I have begun my Paxlovid treatment. However, it will be a couple days more before another test, this time hopefully negative. In this present situation, I dare not present myself in any sort of public gathering, potentially exposing others to this virus.

No ashes for me on Ash Wednesday this year!

And no big deal either!

Knowing a bit about this wondrous Church of ours and its numerous "faces," I am aware that some of our branches have already begun Lent. They started on Monday last. Obviously, they do not have an Ash Wednesday. Others will begin Lent this coming Sunday, and, again, that Ash Wednesday thing is not on their calendar.

Lent is not about Ash Wednesday.

Ash Wednesday is meant to be a good reminder of why we should take this sacred time seriously but it is definitely possible to have Lent, even a very good Lent, without those Ashes on the forehead.

Forty Days!

Whether counting from the Monday that just passed or the day just ahead or the next in our list of Sundays is all about God's Time and not ours. We are dealing with a Biblical number not a mathematical one.

It is about hearing God's call to us - a call to examine honestly, the seek to do better and commit to take more seriously. God is calling us to give to God the time that God needs for the Holy Spirit to enable us to be more fully, more richly who God has created us to be. God is eager to send/pour forth that Spirit to shake us to our very core!

So it's hearing God to say, "Hey, you and I have got some serious work to do! Let's get busy!"

And Lent is about us replying, "OK, let's go!"

If you need Ashes to call you to that moment, go for it.

And if you do not, go for it still.

The time has come to embrace the call to make of ourselves more beautiful people so that we can be a more beautiful Church so that we can build a more beautiful society so that we can all live in a more beautiful world!

Happy Lent!

Thank you for your service!

 I grew up when (and I know that I am dating myself here, but that is no big deal!) words and phrases like, "Can I help you?" and "Please" and "Thank you" were rather commonplace. A shopping experience, for example, would often be interspersed with such phrases.

Out on the street a "Good Morning" or "Good Evening" or even a folksy "Howdy Neighbor" broke any silence.

Then, somehow, somewhere something began to change.

I cannot document its beginnings but, apparently, someone got the idea to get a bit more personable. And so a greeting was given.

"Have a nice day!"

And, behold! that greeting seemed to catch on like wildfire and it spread everywhere and under almost all circumstances.

Checkout clerks were inviting us to have that nice day and bank clerks were joining the chorus and, I suspect, even a pastor or two sent religious congregations out after a service inviting them to "Have a nice day!"

In fact I think that one of the few places where we were not told to "Have that nice day" was the funeral home.

Without much real thought, speaking out of force of habit, well wishers have invited us to that "Nice Day" even at eight in the evening.

It has become a greeting without much real significance or meaning.

And more recently a still newer phrase, limited in usage to be sure, has emerged.

"Thank you for your service."

With our growing fascination for the military and law inforcercers and public servants in general, there has now emerged that phrase of gratitude. We learn that the person alongside us served in Iraq, "Thank you for your service." A firefighter? Thank you . . .  Works the emergency room? Thank you . . .

The gratitude phrase is becoming commonplace and almost expected. Why, even Pat Sajak now says it on Wheel of Fortune when discovering a public servant.

And while the phrase is becoming commonplace and even in danger of becoming trite, I was caught by surprise recently. I was at a funeral. The Mass was soon to start and I was traversing from paying respects at the bier to my place for the coming time of prayer. I was clearly and evidently clergy. Had all the right attire for it. I could also be discerned as having a rather sufficient number of years behind me. The accumulation of years is evident.

And as I walked innocently from point A toward point B, one of the other participants in the event noticed me, stopped and surprised me with that greeting. "Thank you for your service, Father!"

It was a first and it was a surprise and, not ashamed to say it, it was a welcome blessing.

But then came the real surprise.

I don't know where this came from, probably one of those Holy Spirit moments, but, honestly, without giving thought or preparation to it, I responded. And I am very certain that my response surprised my greeter. I do know that it did surprise me.

"And thank you for being Church!" I responded.

Surprising! Certainly!

But true? Hopefully.

Is not that exactly what Christians, Disciples of Jesus, are to be all about? Should that not be the gratitude that each of us merits? Deserves?

Granted, there will be many in our world, in our time who will not be terribly grateful to be in the presence of those making the sincere effort to live as disciples of Jesus. There will be those who criticize, who tell us that we should keep our religious stuff to ourselves.

Thing is, though, that Jesus did come to reclaim this world and all of its flawed and failed social structures. He came to reclaim this world in the Name of its Rightful Owner. He came to establish the Kingdom of God and that will often go against the values that so many wish to live by.

Meekness? Mercy? Builders of peace? Foot-washers? Servants? Sisters and brothers? Walking the extra mile and turning the other cheek?

What sort of world would that be?

Well, perhaps it is time to try and find out.

Perhaps it is time to do the sort of things that just might cause someone to declare to us, "Thank you for being Church!" Perhaps it is time to take Jesus seriously in His teachings and not try and diminish their potency.

Another Lent is here.

Forget the candy and stuff like that, the stuff of our childhood.

How about giving up the things that are not "Of Church"?

And how about getting busy doing the things that enable us to be called "Church"?

How about a Forty Days that move in the direction of inviting someone, maybe THAT Someone to say to us, "Thank you for being Church."

On the Road . . . Again!

 I do believe that it is time for another Road Trip Saga.

And, what?

You thought that I had told all of my Sad Sojourner's  Sagas???

Trust me.

Back in the day, if you decided to travel with me on one of those trips, you were signing up for some sort of adventure. Maybe it would be missed or cancelled flights. Perhaps it was a training ride turned express and headed way farther than expected or hoped for.  Who could tell?

But the stories and sagas have not yet all been told.

And here comes still another.

This one involves a trip that only signed on a small number of travelers, perhaps not even numbering a dozen. While small, it was still a go. There one onlyall (but significant) adjustment.

Instead of one of those sizable travel tour busses, we would be shuttled around in a mini-bus, more like an oversized van to be exact. It was the right size for our group size.

And to further accommodate, our driver would also serve as our tour guide.

The trip itself promised to cover a decent amount of territory. We began in Rome, headed from there into Austria and then on to Germany, back down and around and into Switzerland and from there into France. There may have been some additional destinations but those are lost to time and a faded memory.

What is vivid in memory is that tour guide/bus driver.

Friendly, personable, eager to assist.

And slightly absent-minded.

We were on our way out of Rome, headed to Austria, about an hour and a half or a bit more away from Rome when he gave us the information.

"Seems that I forgot my maps!" he let us know.

No problem, he assured.

"I know where we are going."

Or so he said.

Austria was no problem. Getting to Innsburck and our hotel, likewise, no problem. The days there, no problem.

And then we headed to Germany.

We entered Munich.

And drove and drove and continued to drive.

Our driver was totally lost. He had no clue as to the location of our hotel. Somehow he thought that if he drove around enough, circled enough streets, sooner or later he would spot the hotel.

He was so wrong!

Finally, he hailed a cab and with the cab leading the way, we found our way to the hotel.

But on our way there we had likely had the grand tour of the city!

The missing maps came into play once again as we left Germany and headed to the Swiss border.

We came to the border crossing and went through all of the proper diplomatic stuff, show the passports, have faces checked against photo, etc. and finally we were admitted and free to go.

On the road we headed to our evening's destination.

Or so we thought.

I felt as if I was the only one noticing it but I could see the sun growing lower in the sky, setting behind us.

We were headed due east.

Only our destination and Switzerland was due west from that border crossing!

Back and forth went the conversation between me and our driver/tour guide.

We are going in the wrong direction!

No! I know where we are going!

But we are headed east!

No! We crossed the border, remember?

But check out the sun! It's behind us!

And eventually it came to pass.

The driver stopped, pulled over into a gas station and actually went to get directions.

And sure enough!

The border we had crossed a couple of hours earlier was between Germany and Austria.

We were in Austria (again) and Switzerland was now a couple of hours away in the opposite direction.

Needless to say, we checked in to our hotel rather late that day and dinner was also rather late.

Anyhow, you get the idea of this trip's little series of adventures. There were others. What I have narrated gives you the idea, the flavor.

One final memory - departure.

We got to the airport in ample time for proper departure. Somehow, we did not get lost on that segment of the journey.

And having arrived at the airport, our driver/tour guide began to unload the luggage from the carriers beneath the van. He bent down to draw out some of the luggage and right then it happened.

Riiiiip!

A nice, also rather sizable rip right down the backside of his trousers.

Mapless, clueless and now with trousers well torn, our tour guide/drive bid us adieu!

(I think he got back home eventually!)