From the time I was a child, I was transfixed by musician, composer, and conductor, Leonard Bernstein. I use to watch his “Young People” talks on television about music. As I grew as a musician, and formally studied music in college, and played his music (the Prologue to West Side Story is extremely challenging), I only grew in my admiration of his skills as a composer.
Chichester Psalms, was commissioned by Chichester Cathedral in West Sussex for a big musical festival in 1965. Bernstein set parts of Psalm 108, 100, Psalm 23, Psalm 2, Psalm 133, and Psalm 131 in their original Hebrew to music. He scored the composition for treble voice (boy’s voice), SATB choir, and small orchestra.
I remember going to the local Music Land (an old record store chain) and buying an album of Bernstein’s music conducted by Bernstein. He was still the musical director of the New York Philharmonic. The recording had two musical works, his Third Symphony (Kaddish), composed in memory of President John F Kennedy, and his Chichester Psalms. There have been certain albums I wore out listening. This is one of those albums. It has been probably about 10 years since I listened to it last. I listened to it again, last night and was as captivated by it as I was back in 1970 when I first bought the album. It was this repeated listening that was the catalyst for this poem.
UPON A RELISTENING TO THE CHICHESTER PSALMS
Lenny. Can I call you Lenny? One of America’s most celebrated musicians, composers, conductors, at home in musical theater, ballet, and concert hall, emerging into the public eye with Ginsberg, Kerouac, and Bruce, blazing new creative trails into the American consciousness, upsetting many an applecart, and barbequing many sacred cows. Psalms, why the psalms? In Hebrew, no less?
Musical commissions, the composer’s payday, always a good motivation, but the Psalms really? Well I know them, praying them morning, evening, and night, studying them in seminary. Psalms, a musical prayer arising from the conflicted, shredded souls of their authors, singing from the ashes of their self-defeat and despair. A calling upon a power beyond their control for healing, for companionship, for readmittance into a relationship of trust and love. Imploring for triumph over enemies, thanksgiving for favors granted, and humble acknowledgement of their own smallness and powerlessness in a world born of cruelty and greed.
Mighty composers, too numerous to mention have set these ancient words to music. Monks to Mozart, Bach to Britten, have made their attempts, some I have chanted, others I have sung, or directed from the podium. Why is it, Lenny that you, only you, have succeeded in painting notes, rhythms, melody, orchestrations, and voices to so move my soul, to so stir my heart so as to hear God’s voice in their midst, and dare to reach out to touch God’s face?
Does this music arise from your own mortal soul, as broken and conflicted as mine, keenly aware, that in spite of awards, accolades, and fame heaped upon you, your significance is as great as a flower, whose petals, dressed momentarily in splendor, will lose their allure, fade, droop and drop to the ground dead? Did Ruah, Sophia, Spiritus, or some other manifestation of Spirit, inspire and guide your hand, musically painting each word, each sound, with the tone color of the Divine? Or, am I merely projecting my own musical prejudice upon your musical score?
They matter not, these questions posed to a soul long gone. Were I to stand at the foot of your grave and whisper them to the inanimate matter beneath its surface, I would still hear only silence. The Psalmists are correct, we all flower and fade and go back, reuniting with the earth of our origin. But Lenny, these Psalms, these Chichester Psalms are like a beautiful flower, pressed between the pages of a book. They wait only for the book to be opened, to be watered with musicians, and be heard, reborn, to their formal beauty.
(c) 2019. The Book Of Ruth. Robert Charles Wagner. All rights reserved
It all started with a farmer. A humble man, hardworking, prayerful, seeing God present in the soil, the sprouting seeds, the animals, the wind, sunshine and rain. The cycle of life that governs life on the farm, always displaying to his eyes the abundance of God’s grace.
Now, the sower of seeds, clothed in alb and stole, sows the word of God, to those gathered for Mass, and among the lives of those confined to home, hospital and nursing home. He is Christ personified As the Servant of God.
Little did he know the seed he sowed in my life, slowly germinating, pushing seeking God’s sunshine, like the seeds he sows in his fields during Spring. As the seed grows, I seek after God’s light not just in seminary classrooms and incense scented church naves. Rather, God present in all of God’s Creation, a chord in Copland’s “Appalachian Spring”, the smile of an infant, the comforting of the abused and bereaved, the stories of the broken.
And, now, the joy and ordeal of Formation, with you at my side, my Ruth, and our diaconal brothers and sisters, I kneel before the bishop, placing my hands between his, his hands now imposed on my bowed head, and don my alb and stole, as a servant of The Servant of God.
The homeless man in my communion line approaches me, “The blood of Christ,” extending the cup of wine to him. Draining half the cup, he smiles, “Amen to Jesus!” my ministry now beginning not to the well off and the pietistic righteous, but to the broken, the poor, and the seeker.
[1] Deacon Len Shambour the farmer/deacon remains for me a tremendous permanent deacon. I directed the music at his “first” Mass in the late 1970’s. He and his wife, Ellie, are the epitome of the deacon couple. Getting admitted into diaconal formation is an involved process, with many interviews, a perceiver’s test, eight hours of psychological testing, meeting with a psychiatrist, and finally meeting with the selection team. Ruth and I did this twice. The first time on our way up for the final interview, Ruthie told me she was not ready for this. Beth was still very young, and so in our meeting with the selection team, we removed ourselves from consideration. We were invited to reapply by the team. A couple of years later, we reapplied and were selected. Beth was 10 years old when I was ordained. Life, as a deacon, has been quite the journey for Ruth and me. I always maintain that were it not for the sexism of the Church, Ruth would have been the one ordained to the permanent diaconate. Hopefully, under Pope Francis 1, this will become a reality for the wonderful women of our Church.
REFLECTION FOR THE 20TH SUNDAY IN ORDINARY TIME,
YEAR C
Hopefully, none of us have experienced actually being on
fire. I remember a long time ago, when Ruthie was preparing supper, her sleeve
caught on fire. She moved immediately to the living room and rolled on the
carpet extinguishing the flames before they could harm her. When people catch
on fire, they have got to do something about it. Today, Jesus tells us that he
has come to set the earth on fire. He wishes the earth was already blazing and
experiences anguish until it is accomplished.
Jesus stating that he has not come to establish peace but division, knows that when the Word of God confronts the Sin of our world, peace will not be the immediate result. Sin will not capitulate to God’s Word without a great struggle. There are going to be a lot of people who will want to hold on to the greed and division of our world and oppose the Gospel of Love. There will be division. That division will split families, cultures, and religions. Judaism at the time of Jesus was bitterly divided with many different factions within the religion fighting one another. And those enslaved to the world will do everything they can to silent God’s Gospel of Love.
A case in point, the prophet Jeremiah. Jeremiah was probably
one of the most reluctant of prophets. Every time he opens his mouth to speak
against the behavior of the Israelites, he gets into trouble. He once
complained to God that he wants to keep his mouth shut and to just be left
alone. But the fire of prophecy burns within him so greatly, that to get relief,
he has to speak out against the sins of the people. In today’s reading, people
plot his death for speaking out, throw him in a cistern, then abandon him to
starve to death. Jeremiah’s plight is no different from that of Elijah, who was
always on the lam avoiding death at the hands of King Ahab, or that of Elisha. Jesus’
cousin, John the Baptist, spoke out against King Herod, and ended up arrested
and executed.
Jesus tell us today, that as his disciples, he wants us on fire with the Gospel. He doesn’t just want us sitting around and doing nothing about it. He wants us out in the world spreading that fire, like the prophets of old But he doesn’t want us to think that it will be a cake walk for us. He wants us to be aware that being on fire with the Gospel carries with it, consequences. We will have people, some of them family members, some of them neighbors, some of them members of our own religions who will oppose us, and oppose us openly. They may make our lives very difficult, but we should not be faint of heart. The Gospel will prevail.
The author of Hebrews tells us that first need we will need to address the conflict, the opposition that we will experience within our lives. Each one of us have weaknesses, prejudices and sins that will want to extinguish the fire of God in our lives. We must face these and with the power and strength of God, overcome them. Then, as we move forward allowing the fire of God to fill our lives and begin to live it in word and action, we will need to keep our eyes fixed on Jesus. As Jesus was victorious over the Sin of the world, so we, too, will experience that same victory.
Jesus calls on us today to be on fire with the Gospel. If we
are truly on fire with the Gospel, then we must respond not passively, but
actively do something about it.
I have wanted to compose a series of poems about my daughter, Beth. I present three poems here.
The first poem is an account of Beth’s birth. Because Ruthie’s pregnancies were largely without any problem, it was always the birth’s that were challenges. Beth’s birth followed in grand tradition with the rest of her siblings.
NOT QUITE AN AFTERTHOUGHT
Not quite an afterthought, but like all her other siblings, a surprise. Is it any wonder, my beautiful Ruth, you are pregnant again? So wonderfully beguiling, our fertility such that undressing at the same time in the same room, your chances of pregnancy increase tenfold.
Together, a fourth time, we make this familiar journey, praying for an easy pregnancy, a safe birth, and a healthy baby. Expecting a Christmas Day birth, some trepidation accompanies Christmas Eve and Christmas Day liturgies, the birth of Jesus taking on a new level of anxiety. The Christmas Holidays come and go, till the eleventh of January arrives, and with it our lovely daughter.
The moment arrives, and we take our familiar positions. I watch our child be born, the doctor exclaiming, “Nurse, weigh this kid. I almost dropped it!” Your eyes silently command, “Follow her.” In silence, I follow the green gowned nurse holding our child. The doctor sutures up the passage of our baby, your eyes engage mine. “What is it?” “A girl.” “How much did she weigh?” “Eleven pounds.” A pause, comprehension settles in, followed by, “That’s it!”
With the birth of Beth, our family grew to six members. My salary of $10,000 a year working at St Wenceslaus could not sustain our family. We were already living under the poverty level of a family of four. I began to work at St Hubert in Chanhassen making $18,000 a year, the difference was trading a round trip of four blocks a day to a round trip of 50 miles a day. I worked at St Hubert for 20 years. Ruthie, got relicensed and went back to work as a registered nurse, working full time night shifts, something she has continued to do up to October of last year. That way one of us were always at home with the children. This poem recounts this change that occurred with Beth’s birth, and three year old Meg, becoming, in essence, Beth’s surrogate mother.
TWO MOTHERS
Four children, a family of six, our finances strained, I swap two blocks for twenty-five miles, a compensation paid for increase of salary. Survival, our constant companion, compels you to don your nurse’s uniform and work night shifts to keep food on our table, a roof over our heads, and doctor bills paid. You sleep, when you can, Between children’s naps And school day schedules.
Our three year old, Meg, wearing the mantle of surrogacy, mothers our new born, Beth, when your eyelids feel heavy, teaching her the needed child skills, potty training, kitchen utensils, walking. Under Meg’s tutelage, Beth thrives and excels, a sisterly bond still in place today, though, not often publicly acknowledged.
Beth’s graduation from high school. (from left to right) Me, Beth (holding new born Owen,) Andy, and Ruthie.
The third poem is about Beth, singing a solo at her senior high school concert. I wasn’t too sure what she was going to sing, till she came out on stage in a formal gown and sang Gershwin’s masterpiece, “Summertime.”
SUMMERTIME
The auditorium lights dim, the hall encased in shadow. A spotlight draws our eyes to an elegantly dressed girl, standing in a long, flowing, black gown. The opening strains of Gershwin’s “Summertime” play and she begins to sing. Her beautiful tones soar drawing our souls to the height of the auditorium to gently float, descending in graceful arcs, an aural caress of our senses.
Darling daughter, born with a song in your heart. Strains of “Mommy Good Girl,” rendering “Somewhere Out There” in keys normally out of reach for mere humans. Your life has been an opera, singing what most normally say, a recitative of your life. Early morning duets with sister, Meg, chasing your older brothers to school, your combined voices following them to classes. Fearlessly independent, not afraid to defend your family with words and fist. Your Aunt Mary’s tenacity, a part of your DNA, always persevering in spite of obstacles known and unknown.
This night your reveal your heart to me, your poor father, my heart moved and melting with each sung word, remembering when I held your infant body close to my heart and pledged my life to your forever. The closing strains of Gershwin’s masterpiece sound. A pause, the musical silence Of a half note’s length, then thundering applause as I weep openly with joy.
Yesterday, I celebrated the 67th anniversary of my birth. I am still stuck in my chair, convalescing from a broken ankle, hopping with the aid of a walker to the bathroom, to my chair, and to bed. Ruthie bemoaned that I had a “suckie birthday”. The truth be told, it was a wonderful day.
I had the opportunity to edit a collection of poems I composed in 2011 about when I began to court Ruth up through the first year of our marriage. I spent the whole day with Ruthie, who is a birthday present to me everyday. She went out and got me a burger from the Fishtale Bar and Grill (the best place for hamburgers in New Prague). While she was waiting for the food to take home, she sat in the bar, and Wendy, aka Sugar Momma Bakery, was waiting on her making Ruthie Long Island Ice Teas. When Ruthie told Wendy it was my birthday, Wendy gave her two wonderful cupcakes she had baked. So I had a wonderful hamburger, a wonderful cupcake, a brandy manhattan, a salad for my birthday supper. I told Ruthie, that I had a splendid day. I think I expressed this best on a poem I wrote to Ruthie on the occasion of my 61st birthday.
TO
RUTHIE, ON MY 61ST BIRTHDAY
The waning of long awaited days, time off from long toil culminating on this day, my birth anniversary, my last full day with you for a while. Long have you been the beginning and end of a dream that began when first I saw you, the first day of days in that high school nestled along Rice Street. In you, my beloved, have I entrusted my love, my faithfulness, enclosed within my heart of flesh, given to you to nourish, to protect with that of your own, our hearts as one have grown. With what could you present me that would add to that already given? No embellishment could you bestow the increase of happiness within me flow. Just you, as when first you bade me sit down beside you, that first day of days, ever will I need. You, the beginning and end of my every dream.
The picture above is the one of mom taking me home from the hospital after my birth. Because of the RH factor (something Mary Ruth and I did share), I needed a blood transfusion as a new born infant. I finally came home from the hospital about 6 weeks after I was born. Mom, Dad, and Bill lived in a third floor apartment on South Shore Drive, Chicago. I remember that apartment distinctly, especially the wooden porches/decks on the back of the apartments and the wooden steps leading up to those porches and decks. My earliest memory is that of an infant, on that day coming home from the hospital and being passed around to our neighbors who gathered in Harold Burress’s apartment on the second floor. Harold, I very nice man, smoked and liked beer. He had that smell of a smoky bar on a hot, humid day, stale cigarette smoke mixed in with the smell of stale beer. I remember being passed to Harold and making a fuss because I did not want to be around that smelly, old man. I was soon passed back to the safe arms of my mom.
An old family photograph of mom, myself, Bill, and a most unhappy Mary Ruth on Dad’s lap.
Often times, with my birthday falling on August 12th, my family and I were on our annual vacation to visit family in Pittsburgh. Or, as the picture shows, we would go to a resort for several days. I remember celebrating my birthday in Washington D.C. when we were visiting our cousins who lived in Virginia. It was extremely hot and humid. the Walt Disney show had a program about Johnny Tremain, a revolutionary war tale. I wanted a tri-corner hat like that which the revolutionary army wore. I called it a Johnny Tremain hat. When we visited Williamsburg, that had many actors and shops that resembled Colonial Williamsburg, I got as a present my “Johnny tremain” hat. I was so happy getting that hat. I almost lost it when I stuck my head out the window as we traveled down the highway and it blew off my head. Dad stopped backed up and got it for me (this was when most highways were two lane highways prior to the advent of the freeway). When we got back to Downers Grove, I didn’t wear it too much though. Not many kids in Illinois were wearing Johnny Tremain hats.
The other memory this picture evokes is when mom made me a rubber cake. She was busy putting together the ingredients of the cake, when she was interrupted by something, and when she returned to finish the cake she forgot one ingredient. the consistency of the cake was like that of rubber. You could chew but it was hard to swallow it. We ended up throwing it in the trash. From that point on, mom made us birthday pies.
One last memory. During this time, Catholics always abstained from meat on Fridays. I hated having my birthday falling on a Friday. We often had fishsticks on Fridays to eat. Gad! No amount of tartar sauce makes a fishstick taste good (It is any wonder many Midwesterners hate fish). In true Wimpy fashion, I always wanted a hamburger on my birthday. We would often then postpone Friday birthdays to Saturdays when we wouldn’t have to eat crap on our birthdays.
The windchime birthday present Ruthie got me at the hospital when my left artificial hip was surgically removed because of a MRSA infection in 2011.
As many of you know, in the summer of 2011 I had a left hip replacement that developed MRSA. the infection did not go away. In fact, because of the incompetence of a infectious disease doctor at Fairview Southdale, I almost died from an allergic reaction to vankamycin (he refused to believe I was allergic to the antibiotic) on August 10th, the same date my sister died on. After 2 days in ICU (including the 10th), I went into surgery on my birthday to have my artificial hip replaced. I would not get another hip until late January 2012. When I got out of surgery, hanging on the bar over my bed was this windchime. It was a present from Ruthie. There are a lot of butterflies in the windchime, a symbol of hope and resurrection. She knew the perfect gift to give me on one of the most hard days in my life. We still have that windchime hanging in our kitchen.
My college graduation picture.
I have composed much music as gifts for other people. I have only reserved one of the songs for myself. It is one of my earliest piano compositions. As an aspiring pianist/composer, the German composer Hindemith had a great influence on me. One of my favorite Hindemith compositions was from his piano collection, Ludas Tonalis. Unlike many contemporary composers, Hindemith’s music was not quite as atonal (dissonant sounding) than some of his contemporaries e.g. Arnold Schoenberg (who composed much “serial” or 12-tone music). Hindemith experimented with tonality, but like the composer, Bela Bartok, created very interesting sounding music. The song I composed for myself, evokes the tonality of Hindemith and his Ludas Tonalis.
(In the manner of Hindemith) Psalm Offering 8, Opus 1, (c) 1974, Robert Charles Wagner. All rights reserved.
God has blessed me with 67 years. I have been so fortunate and blessed in so many ways. The greatest blessing in my life has been Ruth, our kids, and our grandchildren. I have had the great opportunity to perform music professionally for 42 years. I have had the opportunity to created and compose music I truly love, and consider a part of me as “children of mine”. I have studied and advanced educationally, having the opportunity to receive a MA in Pastoral Studies. I have had the opportunity to be ordained a deacon, and serve with and to very diverse communities. I have been an educator. I have had the opportunity to become a spiritual director. My life, in spite of some health difficulties, has been very extraordinary and fulfilled. The last couple of years, with the deaths of some very significant people, and Ruth’s injuries, and now mine, have been challenging. But, like many people, Ruthie and I are not immune from these events. God continues to accompany me and guide me through the tough parts and the joyful parts.
I don’t know how many years still lie ahead for me, which is fine with me. But I am grateful for the life that my mom and dad gave to me, and with Ruthie, has evolved. On my 67th birthday, I know that I have been very wonderfully and greatly blessed.
Reflection for the 19th Sunday in Ordinary
Time, 2019
For those of us who are nearsighted, have you ever had to drive without the aid of your glasses or contact lenses? Our good vision is limited to only what we can see directly in front of us on the dashboard. When we lift our eyes to peer through the windshield, all we see are fuzzy images. To drive this way without our vision corrected by glasses or contact lenses is very dangerous for us and for all who share the road with us. The likelihood of us being involved in a collision or causing harm to others is very great.
Living a faith life that is nearsighted is equally hazardous. If this is the way we live, the readings today should shake up our lives greatly. Our faith lives must be as farsighted as they are nearsighted. The author of the Book of Hebrews states this very clearly. “Faith is the realization of what is hoped for and evidence of things not seen.” (Hebrews 11:1, NAB)
The Book of Wisdom reminds the Jewish people that their
ancestors enslaved in Egypt were given the vision of the Passover, so that they
would have the courage to free themselves from their enslavement in the present
and to fulfill the promise that God made to Abraham many years before. The
reading from the Book of Hebrews, picking up from the first reading, explains
how Abraham and Sarah’s faith allowed them to see into the future and believe
what would come long after they had passed into history. “All these died in faith. They
did not receive what had been promised but saw it and greeted it from afar.”
(Hebrews 11:13a-b, NAB)
Jesus calls his disciples to
emulate the farsighted faith of Abraham and Sarah. “Do not be afraid any
longer, little flock, for your Father is pleased to give you the kingdom. Sell
your belongings and give alms. Provide money bags for yourselves that do not
wear out, an inexhaustible treasure in heaven that no thief can reach nor moth
destroy. For where your treasure is, there also will your heart be.” (Luke
12:31-34)
We live in a society that is
nearsighted. Our happiness is based on only what satisfies us in the present
without any consideration for our happiness in the future. This pursuit of
short-lived convenience, this lack of vision, this unconcern
for a future, fills our landfills, our oceans,
our environment with toxic waste, destroying life on our planet. If our faith
life emulates that of our society, our eternal life is equally doomed.
August 10th is a rather loaded day. Officially, it is the feast of St Lawrence the Deacon. However, the feast I celebrate on this day is not Lawrence’s (enough people in the Church are doing that), but the feast day of my sister who died early on the morning this day from complications of Crohn’s disease. When Mary Ruth died, mom and dad, my brother, Bill, Ruthie and I, and our daughters Meg and Beth, and Mary Ruth’s best friend, Dr. Bob Conlin were present. Bob Conlin cradled her head in his lap as she died.
Our good friend, Eleanor Campbell, and my sister, Downers Grove, IL @ 1957.
I have written much about my sister in the past. Till the time I met Ruthie, Mary was one of my best friends. Ruthie and Mary were sisters to one another.
Mary Ruth and Ruthie, 1970.
Mary Ruth excelled in everything she did. She was an outstanding occupational therapist. She was a wonderful Aunt to my children. As I have written before, she never let her illness get in the way of anything.
Mary Ruth and her pet dog, Nicodemus.
On this feast day of my sister, I present three prayer songs I composed for my sister, Mary Ruth. As you listen to these recordings, you can hear the progression of my composing skills over the years.
This first song, Psalm Offering 5 Opus 1, was composed for my sister in 1973. She was 18 years old at the time. It is a short piece of music, a waltz, composed in the key of G minor.
(For Mary Ruth) Psalm Offering 5 Opus 1 (c) 1973, Robert Charles Wagner. All rights reserved.
This second song, Psalm Offering 3 Opus 4, was composed for my sister as a birthday present in 1988. It is in the key of F major. It was a handwritten score that I gave Mary back then. Over the years, I lost my own handwritten score. In 2016, going through a tote in which I kept notes and bits and pieces of music I composed, I came across a partial copy of her song. I was overjoyed because I thought I had lost it forever. With the help of a cassette tape recording I made of the song, I was able to reconstruct her song, and then saved it for posterity. The recording is the reconstructed score of her song.
(for Mary Ruth, Psalm Offering 3 Opus 4 (c) 1988, Robert Charles Wagner. All rights reserved.
Lastly, this third song, is a piano reimagined composition of a psalm I composed for Mary in 1990. The Psalm, Psalm 31, “Into Your Hands I Commend My Spirit” is sung in the Good Friday service of the Lord’s Passion. I recomposed this song for Mary in 2018.
(For Mary Ruth) Psalm Offering 2 Opus 9 (c) 2018, Robert Charles Wagner, All right reserved.
Icon of the Transfiguration by Theophanes the Greek (in the public domain)
TRANSFIGURATION
We recall to memory the Transfiguration, aglow with dazzling white like Gandalf the White, you, the Christ, depart from humanity’s day to day appearance to reveal humanity’s true face, true nature to the startled three. Low toned conversations with ghosts of Hebrew past painted in wisps of white, about paths of pain, paths of disillusionment yet to be. These whispers, as pale and cryptic to the ear as the pale outline of the ghosts.
I step to the mirror, searching for that glimmer, that glimmer of white light hidden behind my eyes. Not the white that streaks my ever thinning hair, but that dazzling white, that aura assigned by artists to the memory of heroes and heroines of past history and ancestry.
I await my own transfiguration, yet, here I stand at the mirror and peer at the reflection of the same person, the same baggage and sins, I struggle to carry with great exertion up the slopes of my own Mount Tabor. Does my transfiguration, my promised true human self await me at the top? Or, just the thin, wispy, pale ghosts of my past carrying on a conversation in whispering tones?
My good friends, Monica, Jorge, and their daughter Julissa.
I think most of us remember the child verse, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.” Many of us who use to shout this back at taunts from other kids, believed firmly in this sentiment. However, given the events of the past two years, we have experienced the emptiness and falseness of these words, especially in light of the gun massacre of innocent people of color at the Walmart in El Paso, Texas, and the shootings in the synagogues of San Diego and Pittsburgh.
Words have consequences. They always have had consequences. Words do hurt. You may not always see welts, the wounds, on the surface of the skin. They often drive deep inside beyond eyesight and inflict wound on a person’s soul that may never heal, may fester, and grow worse. I have seen this in people who have been verbally abused. Its most acute on children who have been verbally abused by a parent.
Words have consequences and long after the wounds from sticks and stones have healed, the wound caused by words may never heal.
Historically, words of people have led to homicide and genocide. The lives of people have been seriously impacted and destroyed from the words of political leaders of all political ideologies and governments and religious leaders from most religions.
Most recently in history, look at the impact of the words of Hitler on the German nation. His words led them to carry a horrific war that killed millions on the European continent. His words led to the systemic murder of 6 million Jews. His words had such a horrific impact on the European continent, that they have left their mark on every country as far north as Norway and as far south as Libya, as far west as Great Britain, and as far east as Russia. His words crossed the Atlantic Ocean and impacted the lives of many American families, most of whom opposed his words, but some, like aviator, Charles Lindbergh, embraced them. To this very day, Hitler’s words continue to incite violence especially so among white supremacists.
Alejandro Ogarrio, a Mexican friend, and my mother, celebrating his birthday.
Much has been made of the words of President Trump speaks to reporters at his impromptu press conferences, walking to and from the Marine Helicopter. The words that President Trump speaks at his rallies incites the people present, mostly Caucasian in origin, to anger, to strike out at others not like themselves. We have seen the impact of his words painted in the blood of the victims on the sidewalk and floors of Walmart in El Paso, in the synagogue of San Diego, and in the synagogue of Pittsburgh. It is true, the President did not squeeze the trigger of the guns that killed these poor people, but his words inspired the killers to go ahead and perpetuate violence against the people they targeted.
Words have consequences. But it is foolhardy and false to condemn those incited to violence by the violent rhetoric of our President, without looking deeply at how those words impact our own selves!
In Roman Catholic religious formation, we are taught to avoid “near occasions of sin.” If something or someone inspires us to act sinfully, we are to avoid that something or someone. Some examples of this might be if you are alcoholic, you avoid places that might tempt you to take a drink. Or, if you have difficulty with pornography, you avoid websites, entertainments, and company that might tempt you to engage in immoral acts.
It is no secret that I have no respect for President Trump. Long before he was president, I disliked him greatly. I have always thought he was an empty human being, a complete phony. It was apparent from his words and his actions that he was a narcissist. If he had a conscience, he kept it well repressed as he engaged in multiple adulteries, sexually assaulted women, and cheated and lied to keep his ill found financial empire.
What I did not know about him was his compulsive lying. The President has revealed himself to be the worse of liars, from the very moment he placed his hand on the Bible at his inauguration and vowed to Almighty God to support the Constitution of the United States.
I have a strong aversion to those who lie, especially those who lie knowingly. This aversion applies to all people regardless of their place in life, whether they be bishops, politicians, or the guy in the street. I hate liars. I find that in just listening to the President speak, even for as small a time as five minutes, I find myself incensed to rage when President Trump gets enraged at reporters who catch him lying and hold him accountable for his lies.
My grandchildren, Aidan, Ollie, and Owen.
I have ministered to and with Mexican and Ecuadorian Latino families, and outstanding Muslim people. I have nothing but respect and love for these wonderful human beings. When the President starts to denigrate and incites violence against these honorable people, who like me, are just wanting the best for their children and to follow their religious path to God, I find myself getting very, very angry! I find myself, speaking/shouting words to the image of President Trump on the television, words I usually reserved for installing and fixing plumbing (something that has always been a near occasion of sin for me).
Observing my visceral reaction to the spoken words of President Trump, the question I ask myself is, “Why do I give him the power to incite me to violent verbal rhetoric?” He may be president, but his power is limited to himself and those in his administration. The only power he has over me is that which I give him. We heard in the scripture reading of Paul to the Colossians this past weekend, that we, who have been baptized in Christ, have been called to a higher way of living, no longer subject to the subhuman way of living in our world. “Why should I let this subhuman man any power over me? By my baptism, by my ordination to the diaconate, I have been called to be Christ, to live the law of love to which Christ has called all his disciples.”
I cannot avoid the near occasion of sin of President Trump. For as long as he is president, he will always be a part of the news feed on our television, radio, newspapers, and social media. I am able to have power over how I respond to his words of violence and the feelings that those words invoke within myself. I also realize that I cannot do this by myself. I have to call upon the presence of Christ within me to help stem the violent visceral reaction I have toward the President and his followers.
An African Jesus and his disciples. (artist unknown)
These words from the first letter of John stay with me. “
⁷ Beloved, let us love one another, because love is from God; everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. ⁸ Whoever does not love does not know God, for God is love. ⁹ God’s love was revealed among us in this way: God sent his only Son into the world so that we might live through him. ¹⁰ In this is love, not that we loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the atoning sacrifice for our sins. ¹¹ Beloved, since God loved us so much, we also ought to love one another. ¹² No one has ever seen God; if we love one another, God lives in us, and his love is perfected in us. (1 John 4: 7-12, NRSV)
Whoever does not love abides in death. ¹⁵ All who hate a brother or sister are murderers, and you know that murderers do not have eternal life abiding in them. ¹⁶ We know love by this, that he laid down his life for us—and we ought to lay down our lives for one another. ¹⁷ How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses help? (1 John 3: 14b-17, NRSV)
Words have consequences! They can incite us to curse others as we have witnessed at the political rallies of President Trump and to kill others as we have witnesses at the massacre of people in El Paso, in our synagogues and our churches.
Words, especially those of Jesus, can inspire us to love in ways we never thought possible!
God has given us the gift of free will. It is our choice.
The torture of Jesus at the hand of the Romans. I believe, judging by the colors and composition, it was painted by Rembrandt. Jesus, in his passion and death, absorbed into his body all the violence a twisted humanity inflicts upon itself.
Sadly, I have posted this prayer song, far too many times. I initially composed this song for the high school children of Parkland High School, who were viciously mowed down by gunfire. And while it was specifically composed for them, the structure of the song applies to all slaughtered by gunfire in mass shootings throughout our nation.
There are four parts to this prayer song. The first part, is a slow walk by the parents, spouses, children, friends, and partners of the victim as they process with their loved one’s dead body to the cemetery. The second part is the shooting incident that killed them, the fast tempo, the confusion of people running for their lives, and the suddenly realization of the victim who has been wounded and/or killed. The third part, is a recap of the first part, slightly faster as the victim walks alongside his/her loved ones and friends to the cemetery. The fourth part, the redemptive love of God embracing the victim and all who have been violently killed by gunfire to heaven.
Listen to this prayerfully for all who were viciously gunned down over the past year. In the United States alone, we have had more mass shootings than we have had days this year.
(For the massacred Parkland High School Students and for all victims of the NRA and gun lobby) Psalm Offering 3, Opus 9 (c) 2016, Robert Charles Wagner. All rights reserved.
