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This past June 11th was the 70th wedding anniversary of my mother and father. Dad died in 2004, and mom died this past June 30th, 2018. I believe that death never separates two people who love each other. Their love keeps them united. I am sure that mom, who was a bit OCD, has tidied up Heaven to her specifications. Heaven has never seen such cleaner clouds!

At the time of my mother’s death, I composed this song and this meditation in memory of my mother and father.

Psalm 71

For you, O Lord, are my hope, my trust, O Lord, from my youth. Upon you I have leaned from my birth; it was you who took me from my mother’s womb. My praise is continually of you. I have been like a portent to many, but you are my strong refuge. My mouth is filled with your praise, and with your glory all day long. I will also praise you with the harp for your faithfulness, O my God; I will sing praises to you with the lyre, O Holy One of Israel. My lips will shout for joy when I sing praises to you; my soul also, which you have rescued. (Psalm 71: 5-8, 22-23, NRSV)

There are certain psalms that have a great deal of meaning for people. Psalm 71 is one of those psalms for me. This song is based on the verses above. As I reflect on this psalm, I find myself a child so very much loved by my God, who is both mother and father to me. God is the parent who never abandons me but is always looking after me.

As a young child, I remember going to the big Chicago department store, Marshall Fields, with my mother. It was right before Christmas and the store was crowded with people. My mother was shopping for clothes, a very tedious task for a four year old child. Marshall Fields’ toy store was a veritable treasure trove of toys, something more akin to my interest then women’s undergarments and the like. The toy section of the store called to me like the song of the Greek Sirens luring Greek mariners to their destruction. Tempted by the thought of all the toys beckoning to me in the toy section of the store, I wandered away from my mother. My mother knew me all too well and let me wander, keeping a watchful eye on me. After tiring of looking at the toys I suddenly realized that I was lost and alone in this vast store filled with people, my mother nowhere in sight. Little did I know that she was keeping an eye on me, just an aisle over from me. I became frightened to the point of panic! Suddenly, there she was in front of me, simultaneously comforting me and gently scolding me for having wandered away from her.

This is the God, the gentle loving parent that this psalm portrays so vividly to me. I dedicate this to my mom and my dad, who cared for me, protected me, allowed me to make mistakes all the while loving me so very greatly. Their death has not separated them from me. As they did, when I was a child, they keep a watchful, loving eye on me, just as my mother did at Marshall Fields in Chicago so very long ago.

Ruthie has had a very tough year. It has been approximately 8 months since she was first run over by a pickup truck, suffered two broken ankles, one which healed on its own, and one which later needed surgery. She was cleared to go back to work in February and lasted only one night. It hurt her to walk. An MRI discovered that the top of her right foot (the surgery ankle) was broken. Another long period of healing and finally cleared to go back to work in May, only to last 4 days when it became too painful to walk. Another MRI revealed that she has osteoporosis in her lower back and multiple fractures in her lower spine and cracked vertebrae. It has been one setback after another and she is quite depressed about it. She has finally made the decision to retire at the beginning of August. Hopefully, her back will be more healed than broken by that time.

This poem is about God incarnate within others. So often when we are in the midst of crises in our lives, whether it be health, or work related, or relationship, we wonder, “Where are you God?” We are not alone in this. In both Mark’s and Matthew’s Passion accounts, Jesus in Gethsemane calls on God to assist him and God remains silent. Jesus’ last words in both of those Passion accounts, “My God, my God why have you forsaken (or abandoned) me?” is a cry of one who feels abandoned by God and is perplexed by God’s seeming absence. Jesus was no stranger to the human condition.

Well I know these feelings of abandonment. A simple hip replacement turned into a medical nightmare when a MRSA infection set in that would not be cured. After 8 weeks the artificial hip would have to be removed. The normal antibiotic for MRSA came close to killing me. I went 5 1/2 months without a left hip as infectious disease doctors tried to find antibiotics in combination that would kill the MRSA but not kill me. It would take 3 more surgeries on the same area (it got to the point where surgical staples were no longer effective. The surgeon used 50 lb weight fish line as sutures toward the end.) before finally I would receive a second hip, 8 months after I had received the first artificial hip and begin to walk again.

It is from out of this dark and frightening time that I address this poem to my beloved, Ruth.

FINDING GOD

Eight months.
Has it been that long?
Chair bound, waiting,
bones knit slowly,
far slower than
the many sweaters
you have crocheted.
Healing and wholeness
seemingly, just out of reach.

I remember my crucible.
Eleven weary, hapless months,
six of which hopping around
like Long John Silver
cutting deals with God,
groping blindly for
God’s presence, wondering,
asking, “Where are you?”
as the infectious disease
doctors groped for
a cure for my MRSA.

Within the silence
was the answer I sought.
God was present
all the time.
God present
in your touch.
God’s comfort
in your words.
The last face I beheld
before slipping into
surgical sleep
was yours.
The first face I beheld
as I awakened
into the haze of post-op
was yours.

It was always you,
God present to me.
At home, in the waiting,
those sterile rooms
of hospitals and
doctors offices,
the long car rides
to appointments.
Always God present
to me in you, in
your smile, in the
changing of many
surgical dressings,
God in you for me.

Now it is my turn
to be God for you.

(c) 2019, Robert Charles Wagner. All rights reserved.

In a Confirmation at St Wenceslaus in the early 80’s, the confirmandi stood as Archbishop Roach prayed, invoking the Holy Spirit to come down upon them. As he prayed, what appeared to be a bird soared over the heads of the confirmandi. Upon closer examination, it wasn’t a dove flying over their heads. It was a bat. Apparently, the Archbishop’s prayer awakened a bat up in the choir loft, and the bat decided to check out all the activity below in the church. It was all rather amusing as ushers grabbed the collection baskets and chased the bat up and down the aisles eventually into one of the bell towers.

The most ancient Hebrew symbol of God’s Spirit in Hebrew scriptures is not a dove (nor a bat). It is the breath of God. God breathed upon the waters in Genesis, and life came forth. Ruah, is the Hebrew word for God’s breath. It is the Wind from all 4 directions that restored a valley of bones to life in the book of Ezechial. It is God’s Wind roaring through the streets of Jerusalem that fills the upper room on Pentecost day. The dove as a symbol, heavily influenced by Greek mythology, came much later.

As I finished up my studies to be a spiritual director, I spent five days at a hermitage located on a lake. It was early May, and nature was blossoming everywhere. I spent most of my solitude on the shore of that lake, meditating. I observed how the wind moved the clouds in the sky and the waters on the lake. Remembering how God breathed upon the waters in Genesis, I marveled that the Holy Spirit is God’s life force in the world. It is God’s breath that moves the clouds and causes the waves upon the lake. God’s Spirit is above us, below us, and to the sides of us. As I took a deep breath, I became aware that it is God’s breath that I was breathing. We are never isolated from God’s Holy Spirit. Rather, we move, live, and have our being within the Spirit of God.

God’s Spirit is not trapped in some church building. The Holy Spirit is all around us. On this Pentecost, walk outside. Listen to nature. Feel the breeze on your skin. Take a deep breath and become aware of God’s Spirit around and within you.

My mom, aka “Jean”, “Regina”, “Queenie” (Regina is Latin for Queen), would be 98 years old on June 4th. She died last year on June 30th, shortly after her 97th birthday. Susceptible to pneumonia over the last year of her life, she was being treated for pneumonia when osteoporosis caused a spontaneous break of her left femur. At 97 years, bones so brittle that they could break easily, there was no way she would have gotten a femur nailing to fix the break. She would have died either in surgery or following shortly afterward. The hospice nurse and I sat down and I told her that the only thing we could do for mom was keep her comfortable and allow her to die. I suffered a very high femur break in 2002, and knew how hard it is to recover from a femur break. As I as recovering, I overheard my surgeon talking to another surgeon, that initially he was not too sure I was going to survive the break. The shock of a high femur break can kill you. (Note: it’s nice to prove doctors wrong from time to time. I am still alive and sinning, as they sing in an Irish song.).

My mom was a great woman of faith. It was her faith that helped her at the age of 12 years, when her mother died, and the death of her little sister, Mary Greta on Christmas Day, two weeks following her mother’s death. My mom’s faith supported her when at 25 years of age, her dad died. My mom received her degree in Home Economics and taught in the Pittsburgh school system. Religious prejudice still abounded then, and though she was a very good educator, she was fired for being a Catholic. She went on to work for the Union Gas Company in Pennsylvania and taught cooking schools all over the State of Pennsylvania. She met my father and was not too sure about him at first. But he eventually charmed her, and her pastor, Father Coglin (who at the death of her dad kind of became her surrogate father … not just anyone was going to marry Queenie, according Fr Coglin).

Mom’s faith sustained her through the ups and the downs of family life. All those 25 years of my sister, Mary Ruth’s Crohn’s disease were tough on all of us, but especially my mom and dad who walked with Mary Ruth through those days and numerous surgeries that were apart of their lives. When Crohn’s disease finally took Mary Ruth’s life in 1997, at the age of 42 years, it was their Catholic faith that sustained both of my parents.

Mom told me that a month or so after Mary’s death, she had a very vivid dream. Mom found her self at a house and knocked on the door. A very beautiful woman answered the door and invited my mom inside. Mom told the woman she was looking for Mary Ruth. The woman smiled and led mom to a room with a two way mirror. Mom, undetected, looked into the room and saw my sister sitting on the floor playing with some little children. My sister was no longer gaunt and broken by her illness, but looked very much alive, healthy and happy. Also, in the room, there was a very handsome young man with a brown beard smiling at my sister. Mom noticed that the beautiful woman, who had invited her in and led her to this observation room, was no longer with her. She then saw that woman enter the room my sister was in, and walk up to her and whisper some words to my sister. Mary Ruth got up and left with the woman. Mom turned around and saw that my sister and the beautiful woman enter the room my mom was in. Mary Ruth hugged my mom and said, “Don’t worry mom, I am okay and am very, very happy.” The dream then ended. Mom said to me, “I know that that beautiful woman was the Blessed Mother, and the young man with the beard was Jesus. I am at peace knowing that your sister is very happy and at peace.”

After Mary Ruth’s death, mom got gravely ill and was in the hospital from Thanksgiving through Christmas. The doctors were puzzled as to why she was so sick. They finally decided shortly before Christmas to do an exploratory surgery on her. My dad, stalwart as he was, was very worried. My mom was a wee bit OCD (her dirt was always the cleanest of dirt), and as we walked her down to the surgical ward, she looked at my dad and said, “Walt, you’ve been wearing the same shirt for the last week. You’ve got to change that shirt. People will think you haven’t any other clothes.” We both gave her a kiss as she went into preop and then went to the surgery waiting room. Dad looked amused. He said to me, “She thinks I have been wearing the same shirt for the last two weeks. She forgets I have more than one of these shirts.”

I think that this heavenly visit in a dream helped mom greatly when my dad died from congested heart failure in 2004. Mom and dad had only been living in New Prague one year before his death. Mom, made friends easily, something not always done in this small town of large, closely knit Czechoslovakian families. She was always entertaining guests. She had her falls and surgeries, but she was always determined to return home and managed to continue to live at home until her dementia grew to the point that she had to move into Mala Strana nursing home. Once she adjusted, she made a point of welcoming all new residents coming to Mala Strana, and letting them know that someone cared for them.

She would be at all the activities, be present at whatever religious services were being held. The home economics teacher in her was always present with mom giving nutritional advice to the other women at her table, especially one woman of 95 years that announced that she was pregnant. The woman received, much to her dismay, a lot of nutritional advice from mom e.g. “You can’t have two ice creams for dessert! That’s not good for the baby!” (I did ask mom how she thought the woman got pregnant. Mom said, “The nuns (mom’s label for the nursing home staff) caught her drinking beer in the basement with the boys.” I replied that just might produce an occasion in which pregnancy could happen.). Mom loved it when children from the elementary school would come to the nursing home and read to her.

Of course, mom’s OCD never went away. She would wheel herself into residents’ rooms and announce that she was there to clean the room. When the residents would object, mom would say that’s okay. I will cross your name off the list for cleaning today, at which point, the residents would agree to mom cleaning their room. To keep mom from watering plants (to prevent mom from falling from her wheel chair), Ruthie bought her some really beautiful artificial flowers and put them in a decorative vase. Mom would say, “people pass by and want to smell them they look so real. They touch them and then ask me, “where did you get them?” And I say to them, “My husband’s wife got them for me.” I looked at Ruthie and quietly said, “Not only am I a bigamist, I have a Oedipal complex.”

On her birthday in 1970, I composed this piano music for her as a gift.

Happy 98th birthday, mom!

Love,

Bob

“Father, they are your gift to me. I wish that where I am they also may be with me, that they may see my glory that you gave me, because you loved me before the foundation of the world.”  (Jn 17:24)

With the Feast of the Ascension  moved to the 7^th Sunday of Easter in most Catholic dioceses of the United States, we no longer hear the readings from the 7^th Sunday of Easter. In this Gospel verse from the 7^th Sunday of Easter, we hear Jesus’ intimate prayer to the Father, asking the Father to protect his disciples,  and to allow his disciples to dwell with him forever.

Jesus speaks of the Father loving him before the creation of the world. Do we feel similarly loved by God? The psalmist writes in Psalm 139, that even before we were conceived in our mother’s womb, we were named and loved by God. Our self worth is measured in how much God loves us, and is not defined by how the world sees us.  As Jesus was a gift from God to our world, so we, too, are gifts of God’s love to our world.

To be “God’s gift to the world” does not imply that we think the whole world revolves around us. That kind of narcissism is the antithesis of being a gift from God. Rather it is measured by humility, realizing the gifts God has given us are meant to be shared, and by serving others as Jesus served. Jesus is the gift that keeps on giving. As his disciples, we, too, must be gifts that keep on giving. In this way, we will be one with Jesus in his glory.

While they (the disciples) were looking intently at the sky as he was going, suddenly two men dressed in white garments stood beside them. They said, “Men of Galilee, why are you standing there looking at the sky? This Jesus who has been taken up from you into heaven will return in the same way as you have seen him going into heaven.”

Think of the extraordinary events that the disciples experienced. They traveled with Jesus as he taught, healed, and performed miracles like the feeding of the 5000 and the calming of the storm at sea. Then they witnessed  Jesus’ arrest, torture and execution. And, then, the crème de le crème event, Jesus rises from the dead and interacts with them again. Is it any wonder, that as Jesus ascended into heaven, they stood their gawking into the sky? Yet, the angels gently reprimand them by saying essentially, “Quit your gawking and twiddling your thumbs. You’ve got work to do.” The angels’ gentle reprimand is addressed to us, as well.

I remember arriving at the hospital shortly after my father had died. My dad was the wisdom figure of not only my own family, but of all our extended family on the East Coast. Dad was constantly being called and asked for his counsel. As I sat next to my dad’s lifeless body, I thought to myself, “The wisdom figure of my family has died.” Then it suddenly dawned on me, “Oh my God! Now I am suppose to be the wisdom figure of the family! Man, everyone is so SOL!” The torch my father had carried in life had been passed on to me at his death. The time had come for me to grow up and carry on the legacy of my father.

It falls not only to a small group of individuals to carry on the saving mission of Jesus. The mission of Jesus  has been passed on to all of us! It is now our responsibility to allow God’s Reign to enter our world through us. Our “mission field” is our homes, our places of work, and our communities. Jesus has no use for “lazy” disciples who sit around “twiddling their thumbs”. The Feast of the Ascension reminds us that it is time for us to “grow up” and carry on the saving mission of Jesus.

A new poem for my bride.

Great literature is filled
with the quests of people.
These quests sometimes
thrust unwelcomed upon
humans who seek only
the bland and mundane,
or the unwilling who
flee from quests as if
they were the bubonic plague.
And,  there are those
who eagerly seek out
adventure, quests
merely a way of life.

You, my love, are
among the latter,
your fate sealed
fifty years ago today,
when you reached out
took my arm in your arm
and we set out into
that cold, driving rain
on that 29^th of May.

We were a couple
driven by a single purpose,
the life fulfilling quest
of growing our lives together,
a quest of mythological dimensions.
With the tenacity of Odysseus,
nothing could stop us in our quest.
Poverty, homelessness, and illness,
modern times’ Sirens, Hydra,
and Cyclops tried
 … and failed.

We grew our lives together
and in doing so,
grew four more lives
as beautiful and as mysterious
as our own.

So here we are,
fifty years later,
our bodies no longer
as nimble as our younger
selves of yore.
My body, pieced together
with spare parts like
an old beater of a car
that teens drive
until it falls apart.
Your body, hampered
by fractures waiting to heal.

As with Odysseus,
this is just a mere pause,
a respite from our adventure,
in which bodies heal,
and rest provided until
once more, we venture forth
into the greater quest
that still beckons to us
that still waits to be fulfilled.

You remain as vibrant and
beautiful as the girl with
whom I fell in love
fifty years ago.
And, I, marvel
at how Fortune has blessed me.
I  thank God every time you reach out
and willingly take my arm
as together we  walk
into the future that awaits us.

This reflection is not an endorsement of the HBO series, The Game of Thrones. There is much within the series the viewer will find objectionable. There is a lot of explicit violence, salacious nudity, cursing, and behavior that will shock the viewer. I am not to be numbered among the ardent fans who have followed this series over a period of 8 years, for precisely the reasons stated in the third sentence of this paragraph. However, as difficult as it may be to view this series, there is much to be gained by viewing it if you watch it as an allegory of human society, not only in the fantasy world of Westeros, but presently in our own nation and in our own world.The following is my reflection on what stood our for me as I watched the series.

I have spent much of my early life reading the literary legends of human history, e.g. The Canterbury Tales, The Decameron, The Tales of Beowulf, Homer’s Iliad and The Odyssey, The Peloponessian War, the Divine Comedy of Dante (Inferno, Purgatorio, Paradiso), Paradise Lost. Many of these are brutal in detail about the inhumanity and folly of the human race. I have been a great fan of the fantasy worlds of Tolkien, and C.S. Lewis, Ursula LeGuin, Anne McCaffrey’s dragon world of Pern, the Mars series by Edgar Rice Burroughs, and many more. Having studied human history and the religious history of the Dark Ages through the Renaissance, read Machiavelli’s “The Prince” (in high school much less), and the horror that the Borgia family, Caesar and Lucretia, and the popes of that family perpetrated upon their world, in addition to the political and religious violence of Ireland, Scotland, Wales and England, entering into George RR Martin’s fictional world of Westeros was not much of a stretch.

Ruthie and I finished watching Games of Throne last night. Unlike others, I was not disappointed with the ending. What will be more interesting is how George R R Martin will conclude his series of books upon which the television series is based.

As one who has studied world history, the violent brutality of the series is hardly farfetched. The true reality of intrigue and politics of the royal courts of real human history make the brutal exihibition of violence in the series seem like child’s play.

The portrayal of rival religions inflicting untold horror upon non-believers is nothing to the real history of world religions torturing, burning at the stake, slow dismemberment of humans (e.g. The Spanish Inquisition) all in the name of God. The Faithful Militant is nothing compared to the English Oliver Cromwell who butchered and killed many innocents in the name of Jesus Christ. The red witch’s burning people alive to purify them for the god of light, is nothing compared the the Christian Churches penchant for burning people at the stake, including St Joan of Arc, to purify the world for God. We are still butchering people in the name of God, whether it be in a mosque in New Zealand, a aynagogue in San Diego, or Christian Orthodox churches in Syria.

Much has been made of the salacious treatment of women as sex objects in the series (could there be any more brothel scenes?). However, we have only to be attentive of the disparaging and patronizing treatment of women in our present culture, from the evidence of the Me Too movement to the recent slate of legislation against women passed by male dominated legislatures, and the role of women in world religions, to see that women are still only meant to be seen, preyed upon, used sexually and discarded, rather than be heard and have an influence impacting our culture, our religions, and our world. The series treatment of women as commodities reveals in cold, brutal truth the reality in which women are held in our world today.

What I enjoyed the most in the series was the portrayal of strong women characters (I am likely to get their names misspelled here). Brutal and failed as a person Cirsei was, she was up against many threats from the many powerful males and one particular female around her and persevered. There was a little bit of the real Queen Elizabeth I in the way she schemed her way in life. Daenerys, as shamefully treated as she was, overcame great odds and rose to be a powerful ruler. It’s just too bad she descended into madness, though, that was projected as likely to happen early on in the series. Sansa went from a frightened wall flower raped by men in body, mind and soul to a woman of great strength and wisdom. Arya, a little child, who through adversity became a most formidable face changing assassin. Brienne, a woman of integrity and skill besting the best of men on their own terms. Melisandre, the red witch, flawed as she was, ultimately gave of herself for the common good. Yara Greyjoy, fierce in loyalty and battle, and the list goes on and on.

The only two male characters I found as fascinating as the women were Tyrion, the dwarf, and Varys, the eunuch. Like the female characters mentioned above, these two men, had the odds stacked against them, and used their gifts of intelligence to rise to prominence. Though they made many mistakes, somehow, they were able to admit the mistakes and maintain their personal integrity.

Ultimately for me, the series ended up being a lens through which to reflect on the world in which I live. We may have sanitized our killing, chemical weapons to lethal injections, out bloodletting not as visceral as slitting throats, and chopping off heads. However, the brutality of human nature has not changed much from that of our ancestors in the distant past and in our present time.

The golden rule present in all world religions continues to be ignored and dismissed by many who belong to those religions. As a Christian, we have yet to live Jesus’ command to “love one another as I have loved you.” As brutal and difficult to watch, the Game of Thrones is an allegory of our present day human society and reveals, that for all our boasts of how human society has improved, human society has not evolved much at all. Amidst the dim flickering of goodness in the human psyche, the darkness of the human heart still prevails.

The 50th anniversary about which this post is about is NOT our wedding anniversary, but the anniversary of our first date, May 29, 1969. During the school week, Ruthie lived with her Uncle Harold and Aunt Ev on Marion Street, about 3 blocks from St Bernard’s. Every now and again, on the weekend, she would go home to the family farm in Scandia, Minnesota.

The weather that May 29th was very rainy and cool, much like the weather we have been experiencing of late. There were no real shopping malls at that time (the only one I knew was Har Mar Mall by my house). If you wanted to see a movie, you drove downtown St Paul.

I remember knocking on the door of her Aunt and Uncle’s house. She opened it and I was so taken by how beautiful she was. Her hair smelled of Herbal Essence. We drove downtown St Paul and went to see the movie, Charly, starring Cliff Robertson (previous to this film, he played John F Kennedy in the movie, PT 109). It was a good film, a bit bittersweet. And, no, I didn’t kiss her on the first date. I was just ecstatic taking her out on a date. After all, I was merely a junior in high school and she was a senior. I could not believe the incredible fortune I had in her saying yes to going out on a date with me. I didn’t want to do anything that would prevent future dates. I, also, had and to this day have only the greatest respect for her.

Here is the poem I wrote about that night.

FIRST DATE

Pouring down rain drenching the night
as I climb the steps to your  home.
With one knock,
light from within greets me,
and there you stand,
the scent of herbal essence from your hair,
your brown eyes looking deep into my soul.
You bid farewell to your Aunt and Uncle,
open the screen door
and step outdoors.
The drenching rain suddenly
frozen in time
as your hand touches mine
and you laugh,
aware of the secret
I have hidden deep within.

© 2011. The Book Of Ruth,  by Robert Charles Wagner. All rights reserved.

By July, I finally had the courage to kiss her for the first time. Her response could be summed up by the question, “What took you so long?”

FIRST KISS

You wonder why
it took so long
for my lips to brush
against your lips.
Like a young child
searching for words,
I lack the vocabulary
to communicate
my feelings for you.
It is not because
you are not appealing
nor a question of
my sexual preference.
Rather, it was
respect for the dignity
embodied within
your womanhood
that makes me hesitate
Aware of my lust for you,
who am I to sully
with my wanton desires
your beauty and integrity
knowing that once our lips touch
breached would be the dike
that long I took to build.
Little did I know
you were waiting
for that dike to crumble.
© 2011. The Book Of Ruth,  by Robert Charles Wagner. All rights reserved.

Here is the first song I composed for Ruthie.

Do not let your hearts be troubled or afraid. (John 14:27)

FEAR. Of all the weapons in the world, fear is the greatest of them all. Throughout human history, fear has been used to inflict horrific atrocities on groups of people. Wars and the genocide of peoples are all products of fear. Unscrupulous politicians manipulate and prey on the fears of people to get votes.  It matters not what political ideology or party to which they belong.

There are healthy fears, for example, look both ways before crossing a street to avoid getting hit by a car. Or, don’t accept rides from strangers. Each and everyone of us has something we fear, be it spiders, snakes, heights, enclosed spaces to name just a few. The Church has used the fear of Hell to prod us into being good. It was a favorite teaching tool of my 2^nd grade teacher, Sr. Angeline, who believed that if we were not willing to go to heaven voluntarily, she would scare us into heaven.

However, fears can paralyze us. I remember, shortly after 911, attempting to assist a woman paralyzed by her fear of terrorists. She refused to leave her home for fear that a terrorist would kill her. It mattered not explaining that it was highly unlikely a terrorist would target a southwestern suburb of Minneapolis, much less her as a victim. She was so consumed by fear that she eventually needed hospitalization.

Jesus tells his disciples and us that if we are one with him and the One who sent him, we have nothing to fear. If we truly believe in him and love as he loves, our fears will neither possess nor paralyze us. Paul expresses this in his letter to the Romans. “What will separate us from the love of Christ? Will anguish, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or the sword? No, in all these things we conquer overwhelmingly through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor present things, nor future things, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Romans 8: 35-39).  Jesus’ message is clear. Be not afraid.