New Year's Eve

It's the end of the year 2008. What a year it's been.

I've spent exactly six months of it on Active Duty in the United States Army. Had you predicted this for me as few as four years ago, I'd have told you something not very nice, I suspect.

As I reflect upon these past six months, I feel deep gratitude. I'm grateful for all the love and support from my family and friends, and from people I don't even know at places like Adventure Christian Church, Zion Lutheran Church, Shepherd of the Valley Lutheran Church, Adopt-A-Chaplain, etc. Many thanks to everyone at St. Thomas Aquinas and St. Cyprian. Mille grazie to the VFW posts who have sent goodies for my Soldiers and DoD civilians. Vielen Dank to Apryll N and Allison S and Elaine W and Angela L-R and Catherine & Michael and Casey & Brenda and Mama & Papa B and Victor L and Smith Middle School and Susan A and Helen M and Loretta & Tim and Anna J and Quota of MB.

Special thanks to my parents, Tom & Nancy, for all the fresh-baked bread, and yum-yums, and home-made rhubarb conserve (mmmmm!), and all the love these goodies represent.

I'm sure I've neglected to mention many people who deserve thanks. This is purely an indication of my incipient senile dementia, and in no wise a slight of any kind.

God willing, this will be my 30th New Years Eve in a row that I've been sober. Hooray for the Higher Power!!

May your New Year's Eve be safe and sane.

Blessings and peace to one and all on this Sixth Day of Christmas,


Fr. Tim, SJ

No matter how far down the scale -- part II

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about coming to recognize that my experience, strength, and hope -- when shared with other people recovering from addictions -- could benefit them, while helping me to remain clean and sober (and not use automatic weapons against unsuspecting family members). "No matter how far down the scale we have gone" even includes high-bottom, more or less high-functioning alcoholics, like myself. Go figure.

I suppose that's why I've been able to have a rich and rewarding retreat-giving ministry to folks recovering from addictions for the past 18 years now...

But then I came into the Army, about as foreign a cultural experience as I've ever had (and I've spent a number of weeks in Thailand and Vietnam, several years running). Just as I knew that there was little chance I'd fit in before I set foot in Thailand the first time, I was certain I'd feel like a third wheel in the Army.

I've never had delusions of being Rambo. Delusions, yes, I'm told. But of being Rambo? No.

Much to my surprise, I've found that my experience, strength, and hope -- not having anything directly to do with addictions, but none the less shared with others -- can benefit my sisters and brothers in uniform over here Down Range.

Now *that's* something.

Those of you who know me will certainly agree with the notion that I'm probably the last person on the face of the earth who'd have been voted "likely to join the Army at age 50 with no prior service." There are lots and lots of reasons for that, not least of which is my deep and negative visceral reaction to automatic (and other) weapons. Especially when they're pointed at *me*.

I won't mention what CDT Saffar Arjmandi (RANGER and RAKKASAN) said to me when I told him I was in the process of seeing whether I could get a Commission in the United States Army. (Those of you who knew him already know what he said about me, and he was right!)

But here I am, anyway.

A while ago, a Soldier from my "parish" contacted me to ask me to come speak with him. Because of circumstances beyond the control of my colleagues, we're down to one vehicle for the six of us, and this is making my getting over to my "parish" very difficult.

The Soldier had to wait five days, until my 'day off' before I could get a vehicle to get over to him.

(It's a constant struggle now just to take care of my Catholic Soldiers on post -- without even going outside the wire. (Don't get me going about *that*!))

As he poured out his soul to me, after we finally were able to get together, I realized he was experiencing many of the same feelings I'd endured during a particularly difficult time in my life, when I felt betrayed by people I'd thought I could trust. Shame, fear, anger, confusion, sadness, loneliness, isolation -- all occasioned by the incident in my life -- mirrored the experience of my parishioner.

After he unburdened himself of what he was carrying emotionally and spiritually, I shared with him what I'd gone through. It's not something I often speak of, which is of itself and indication of the pain still associated with the experience, years later.

An amazing thing happened.

This career Soldier, who's been in uniform a LOT longer than I have, relaxed visibly, stood taller, and began to smile. His whole physical presence changed noticeably.

"Wow. I have been feeling so oppressed by this situation, I knew I couldn't tell anyone about it. But it was getting so heavy, I began to ask God to send me someone I could trust with this. I heard you at Mass, and decided to risk speaking with you. I see now that God has answered my prayer."

He and I spoke again recently -- again after a struggle to get together because of the vehicle situation -- and he said, "I've really come to peace with the situation, though it's far from being resolved. I'm not sure why I'm , but I think talking with you has been a big part of it."

Who knew?

My friend Carol, who's an Episcopal priest (and the best preacher I've ever heard), says that Jesus came so that none of us ever has to suffer and die either first or alone. There's something amazingly comforting, in the midst of an awful situation, in knowing that we're not alone, that our experience is not unique.

¹ Who has believed what we have heard?

And to whom has the arm of the LORD been revealed?

² For he grew up before him like a young plant,

and like a root out of dry ground;

he had no form or majesty that we should look at him,

nothing in his appearance that we should desire him.

³ He was despised and rejected by others;

a man of suffering and acquainted with infirmity;

and as one from whom others hide their faces

he was despised, and we held him of no account.

⁴ Surely he has borne our infirmities

and carried our diseases;

yet we accounted him stricken,

struck down by God, and afflicted.

⁵ But he was wounded for our transgressions,

crushed for our iniquities;

upon him was the punishment that made us whole,

and by his bruises we are healed.

(NRSV: Is 53:1-5)

My parishioner, much more a Soldier than I could ever hope to be, none the less found identification with and comfort from my experience, as different as the two of us are in so many ways, and with next to no military know-how on my part. Incredible.

Friends who go to many AA and Al-Anon meetings for years have been trying to show me that my experience in recovery can bless others, and they're finally succeeding in that project. What I'd never have truely believed possible in the military realm is that my experience, strength, and hope in the civilian realm could benefit my comrades in uniform.

God has a weird sense of humor, to be sure.

Blessings and peace to one and all on this Fifth Day of Christmas,


Fr. Tim, SJ

You've got to be carefully taught

You've got to be taught
To hate and fear
You've got to be taught
From year to year
It's got to be drummed
in your dear little ear
You've got to be carefully taught

You've got to be taught
To be afraid
Of people whose eyes
are oddly made
And people whose skin
Is a different shade
You've got to be carefully taught

You've got to be taught
Before it's too late
Before you are 6 or 7 or 8
To hate all the people
your relatives hate
You've got to be carefully taught

Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein created some spectacular Broadway musicals during their partnership. While I love the eminently hummable music Richard Rodgers composed (especially for The King and I, Oklahoma, South Pacific, and The Sound of Music, just to name four), the lyrics often surprise and delight me some forty or fifty years after their debut.

Now, the last time I wrote about lyrics from a Rodgers and Hammerstein production I annoyed quite a number of readers, so since insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and always getting the same result, but each time expecting a different result, here I go again!

"You have to be carefully taught" comes from South Pacific, which won a Pulitzer Prize in 1950 (in addition to ten Tony Awards, including for Best Musical). It's sung by Lieutenant Cable -- who, of course, winds up dead by the end of the play. (Oops, I guess I've just spoiled the plot for you!) He's in love with Liat, a beautiful Vietnamese girl, but cannot bring himself to commit to her. Despite his having dumped her before he goes off on what is to be his last mission, Liat is inconsolable at the news of his death.

Anyway, rent the movie, especially if you've not seen it and/or not heard the soundtrack in a long time. Gorgeous.

I've been thinking about prejudices lately because I've been around such an ethnic and cultural melting pot since joining the Army. There are lots of people in the Army who were born in other countries. Everywhere I go there are DoD civilians and "third-country nationals" from all over the place.

One of my really good friends here Down Range, CPT J, is a lawyer who was born elsewhere and then came to the United States to go to the university and graduate school. He's been a US citizen for many years now.

I am constantly giving him a hard time about his "taking jobs away from *real* Americans." One of the other priests here is from another elsewhere, and he wound up baptizing my friend at the Easter Vigil this past year. They remain really good friends. Both have very pronounced, and very different accents when speaking English.

I can't remember what the context was right now, but not too long ago CPT J and I were talking and laughing about something, and he mentioned my fellow priest. I made some snide comment about the two of them, and he grinned from ear to ear and replied, "It must be because we're BOTH taking jobs away from *real* Americans!"

Because of his accent, CPT J has faced some pretty stiff opposition from dunderheads who can't see past the end of their noses. He's an American citizen, and probably knows a LOT more civics than *I* do. Yet because he sounds "different" from what certain people *think* an American should sound like, he's immediately suspect.

Good thing for him he's a lawyer!

One of the things I'm really liking about the Army is that it offers Soldiers from wherever they've come the opportunity to live and work with people from all over the place. It really is a great equalizer.

I can't help but believe if more people had the experience of having to interact with people they've been *taught* to fear, distrust, dislike, and despise -- in an atmosphere where 'conduct unbecoming' is not tolerated -- we'd have fewer people teaching their little ones "to hate all the people your relatives hate."

¹³People were bringing little children to him in order that he might touch them; and the disciples spoke sternly to them. ¹⁴But when Jesus saw this, he was indignant and said to them, “Let the little children come to me; do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs. ¹⁵Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.” ¹⁶And he took them up in his arms, laid his hands on them, and blessed them. (NRSV: Mk 10:13-16)

You've got to be carefully taught.

Blessings and peace to one and all on this Fourth Day of Christmas,


Fr. Tim, SJ

Away in a Manger

Truth be told, it hasn't seemed all that much like Christmas this year.

It's not just about being far away from home; I was in Europe during Advent and Christmas of 1977, and it felt plenty enough like Christmas then. (Of course, I *did* go to midnight Mass at St. Peter's Basilica -- the last Christmas Eve midnight Mass that Pope Paul VI would celebrate, as it turns out.)

It probably doesn't matter exactly what is going on. There's no use getting into analysis paralysis over it; it's not really a problem. Just a statement of fact. All the Christmas paraphernalia which had been up for a week in our office, was taken down yesterday, too. (Guess that's another difference between liturgical and non-liturgical types!)

We had decorated our office for Christmas, replete with gold lamé wrapping paper completely covering the door, cheesy 1970s garland for accent, and really, really annoying 'singing' Christmas cards taped onto the wrapping paper. Every time someone moved past them, we were treated to (exposed to? subjected to? tortured with?) dogs barking Jingle Bells, some baritone tinnily crooning Silent Night, and a soprano warbling I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas.

It was a veritable cacophony of vituperation, almost constantly. We have a lot of visitors, especially since we've been putting out all the goodies we've been receiving from you good folks. Thanks! Seriously.

That being said, I love hearing and singing Christmas carols, and perhaps part of what's been going on for me is that I'm in the midst of the most musically challenged individuals I've ever encountered. It's quite remarkable, actually.

Funny thing, though, is that while it can be disconcerting during Mass, I'm nevertheless chuffed (as my friend Stan would put it) that they're at least making the effort, and thus making a joyful noise unto the Lord. It's joyful, all right! Today at Mass it was *very* loud, too. They were just praising the Lord as best they could, and that was great.

A bit messy, but no more so than the Incarnation itself. Or the Nativity.

Which brings me back to the original musing behind this post: Away in a manger, no crib for a bed... Jesus was quite literally born in a barn!

Every Christmas crèche I've ever seen has been sterile at best, if not coldly beautiful. Sure, there are animals, but none has any real character. There certainly are no cows or bulls with bovine or taurine "issues." No goats with bad attitudes. Very vanilla.

There certainly are no barnyard smells going on.

Very antiseptic.

We seem to forget the barnyard smells when we think of the Nativity. We forget the bloodiness of the process, the pain. We sanitize everything for our psychic protection, it seems. We want Jesus to be Lord and Savior, but not truly one of us, because that would just be too "unseemly," wouldn't it?

In our visual (and other) representations of the Nativity, we appear to ignore what's written in the Letter to the Hebrews: "Therefore he had to become like his brothers and sisters in every respect..." (NRSV: Heb 2:17) We forget where Jesus really was born, and all the unpleasant implications thereof.

The Incarnation and Nativity are messy, earthy, human. Jesus *was* born in a barn!

(You can bet his Mom only used a certain line only once after Jesus left the house door open the first time when he was a child. Talk about embarrassing!)

Let's face it: Do you believe Jesus had dirty, stinky diapers, or don't you?

I've been particularly aware of that kind of messiness of the human condition since I've been going around to various outposts that are pretty far away from the conveniences and comforts that we enjoy where I live. If you've ever seen the movie Jarhead, for example, you might remember scenes in which the Marines have to tend the burn barrels.

Nasty business, that burning, because of the business they're burning. And it's one hundred and eleventy-seven degrees Fahrenheit while they're doing it, to boot!

I've been to a combat outpost a couple of times now at which the Soldiers need to use burn barrels, because there's no other way for them to dispose of their business. It's an experience, let me tell you. Makes me very glad to get home, even if it's taken six or seven or eight hours to get there.

The Soldiers I visit at that place live like that 24/7, as they say these days. The fires burn around the clock. Everyone is very aware of wind velocity and direction there, especially during meal times.

Count your blessings.

Recently I've visited another post a couple of times where they don't have to burn, but they do have to bag. Literally.

Think of urban dog owners and their rituals.

Now, it's not a matter of picking it up afterward, but it is a matter of using a plastic bag in the first place, and then placing that bag in a another, ziploc, bag. (They're called "wag bags.") Everything then goes into the trash, and someone has to bury that.

Too much information? Well, an informed electorate is a wise electorate. Or something.

Very earthy.

The Soldiers living at that post live there 24/7. But at least they don't have to burn....

I suspect some folks are pretty offended now, having read this far. "How *dare* he! What a breach of etiquette! How *could* he get from Christmas carols to *this*? The nerve! The impudence! The irreverence!!!"

Be honest.

If that's your reaction, at least you've been paying attention.

Like the Christmas crèche that is so prettified we lose sight of the reality of the mess involved, this war has been so sanitized that Americans at the mall, or "supporting the troops" by typing furiously on keyboards in their parents' basements (when they could actually be over here in person), have no real sense of the sacrifices required and deprivations endured by military personnel at combat outposts over here -- on their behalf!

I know *I* was not aware of what goes on over here before I set boots on the ground and got outside the wire!

Count your blessings.

I know I do, every time I'm here on post and need to do "personal hygiene." (Great euphemism, eh?) Knowing how others wearing the same uniform as I do have to conduct their lives, while I've got it so easy here, is an immensely humbling thought. As irksome as it can be to have to journey out into the cold night to take care of business in the latrine trailer, at least there is a *trailer* that has real toilets!

And the greatest annoyance we have to put up with where I work is the fact that whoever designed the building did not include enough indoor plumbing to accommodate easily the number of people working here. There's often some, somewhat annoying, waiting involved. But at least it's indoors, and we have toilets that flush! Almost all the Soldiers I have to travel outside the wire to visit don't have the luxury of real toilets.

So, what's to complain about?

Of course, there is the problem of the Officer at work who outranks me by multiple pay grades, but doesn't know how to lift a toilet seat up before using the commode while standing up. He seems not to know how to wash the mess or his hands afterward, either. (I've witnessed this, firsthand, unfortunately.) {Shudders involuntarily.}

Thank God for Clorox disinfecting wet wipes! (I've taken to keeping them handy for just such an eventuality....)

Ah, the humanity of it all.

Away in a manger, no crib for a bed....

Blessings and peace to one and all on this Third Day of Christmas,


Fr. Tim, SJ

A Christmas Day Mass

On Christmas Day, SFC McG and I traveled by convoy to a place outside the wire that's a very difficult place for the Soldiers who live there to be. Conditions are harsh, food is dull and predictable, there's really smelly mud everywhere these days what with the rain we've had, and they lost one of their buddies to a sniper not too long ago.

They only get Mass once a month.

Twenty guys showed up (there are only men at this place) for Mass, despite our having had to change the time and day of the liturgy at the last minute because of problems getting there by air. Fortunately, my parent unit is now allowing priests to move about the battlespace by convoy lately, so we were able to get the Brigade Commander's PSD (personal security detail) to let us tag along at the last minute as they went out to visit this particular outpost.

We encountered some hefty traffic snarls, so we got there later than we'd planned, but everyone waited for us.

They were clearly tired, and sad to be away from family and friends on Christmas. They grieved the death of their brother. But they were clearly also very appreciative at the opportunity to celebrate the Eucharist on Christmas Day in the midst of their very difficult living conditions and military situation.

It lifted my spirits to be in their presence. I felt as though I was actually doing what I signed up to do.

Please keep them, and all my sisters and brothers in uniform, in mind during the difficult days between Christmas and the New Year. Thanks.

Blessings and peace to one and all on this Second Day of Christmas,


Fr. Tim, SJ

Good King Wenceslaus

On this Feast of Stephen (well, at least for us in the Western Church; the Orthodox celebrate it tomorrow), people might be reminded of the Christmas Carol, "Good King Wenceslaus."

Now, the subject of the carol wasn't named Wenceslaus, and wasn't a king. He was actually named Václav, and was the Duke of Bohemia (907-935 CE).

(There actually was a King of Bohemia named Wenceslaus, but he reigned some three centuries after Václav (1205-1235 CE).)

But let's not let little things like facts get in the way.

Well, at least he was good.

Anyway, Václav was noted for his piety and generosity in his lifetime, and shortly after his death was acclaimed as a saint. He rapidly became venerated throughout Bohemia, and all the way to England. Because of the power of the legends surrounding him, Václav became the medieval model of the "just monarch" who really cared for his subjects.

In the mid-19th Century, Anglican cleric John Mason Neale (noted for publishing English translations to many now well-known carols) published the words of Good King Wenceslaus:

Good King Wenceslas looked out, on the Feast of Stephen,
When the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even;
Brightly shone the moon that night, tho' the frost was cruel,
When a poor man came in sight, gath'ring winter fuel.

"Hither, page, and stand by me, if thou know'st it, telling,
Yonder peasant, who is he? Where and what his dwelling?"
"Sire, he lives a good league hence, underneath the mountain;
Right against the forest fence, by Saint Agnes' fountain."

"Bring me flesh, and bring me wine, bring me pine logs hither:
Thou and I will see him dine, when we bear them thither."
Page and monarch, forth they went, forth they went together;
Through the rude wind's wild lament and the bitter weather.

"Sire, the night is darker now, and the wind blows stronger;
Fails my heart, I know not how; I can go no longer."
"Mark my footsteps, good my page. Tread thou in them boldly
Thou shalt find the winter's rage freeze thy blood less coldly."

In his master's steps he trod, where the snow lay dinted;
Heat was in the very sod which the saint had printed.
Therefore, Christian men, be sure, wealth or rank possessing,
Ye who now will bless the poor, shall yourselves find blessing.

Václav's page is unable to withstand the harsh cold as Václav is going about on the night after Christmas, giving alms to the poor. Václav instructs him to follow directly in his footsteps, and when the page does so, he finds heat radiating from the saint's footprints, enabling the page to accomplish his mission of caring for those less fortunate.

So, irrespective of the guy not really being named Wenceslaus, and not really being a king (he was posthumously granted that title by Emperor Otto I (d. 973 CE)), his legendary charity and the lovely musical remembrance thereof can inspire us none the less during these Twelve Days of Christmas.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

A Christmas Carol

“Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask,” said Scrooge, looking intently at the Spirit's robe, “but I see something strange, and not belonging to yourself, protruding from your skirts. Is it a foot or a claw!”

“It might be a claw, for the flesh there is upon it,” was the Spirit's sorrowful reply. “Look here.”

From the foldings of its robe, it brought two children; wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. They knelt down at its feet, and clung upon the outside of its garment.

“Oh, Man! look here. Look, look, down here!” exclaimed the Ghost.

They were a boy and girl. Yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostrate, too, in their humility. Where graceful youth should have filled their features out, and touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shrivelled hand, like that of age, had pinched, and twisted them, and pulled them into shreds. Where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out menacing. No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread.

Scrooge started back, appalled. Having them shown to him in this way, he tried to say they were fine children, but the words choked themselves, rather than be parties to a lie of such enormous magnitude.

“Spirit! are they yours?” Scrooge could say no more.

“They are Man's,” said the Spirit, looking down upon them. “And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it!” cried the Spirit, stretching out its hand towards the city. “Slander those who tell it ye! Admit it for your factious purposes, and make it worse! And bide the end!”

“Have they no refuge or resource?” cried Scrooge.

“Are there no prisons?” said the Spirit, turning on him for the last time with his own words. “Are there no workhouses?”

(Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol, pp 71-72)

When I was a child, my father would read us A Christmas Carol at Christmastime. At some point, once we got older, we would watch the 1951 screen adaptation, Scrooge, on TV (the one with Alastair Sim as the hapless Ebenezer). I remember being scared out of my wits by the spectre of Christmas Future with its skeletal hand pointing toward Scrooge's grave from under the black, hooded cloak, the first time I watched that movie.

None of the other cinematic adaptations I've seen can hold a (Christmas) candle to that 1951 version!

If you've not read the story in a while -- aloud -- do yourself the favor of "using the Google" to download it so that you can treat yourself to Dickens' prose. All the better if you have a British friend who can come over and do it for you, so the correct atmosphere can be established! But go with whatever you've got. You'll thank me. (At least read the quote, above, aloud, with all the appropriate emphases. Perhaps then you'll take me up on my challenge!)

Scrooge, of course, would never say "Merry Christmas" to people, because he didn't believe in all that "humbug." By the end of the story, however, he's shouting it far and wide.

Bill O'Reilly would be so pleased.

However, Bill, it ought to be noted that in addition to *saying* "Merry Christmas":

1) Scrooge began paying Bob Cratchit a living wage.
2) Scrooge took notice of, AND DID SOMETHING CONSTRUCTIVE ABOUT, those less fortunate than himself -- even strangers!
3) Scrooge made amends to those he'd hurt by his actions and/or attitudes.

Why people get so bent-out-of-shape over whether salespeople are saying "Merry Christmas" is beyond me. What do salespeople have to do with Christmas, anyway? Christmas music will be off the airwaves as of 26DEC08, and Valentine's Day merchandise on the shelves at the same time. So what if stores don't have signs saying "Merry Christmas"! Sheesh. I've managed to make it through to Christmas Day this year without going into a single mega-mall, and it's not diminished my Christmas spirit in the least!

So here's the deal: If you *need* to say "Merry Christmas" to me as a political statement, hold your breath. The last I checked, Christmas isn't primary a political phenomenon. I'll hope that you have Happy political Holidays.

It's a PRAYER, Bill, not a slogan.

Then the king will say to those at his right hand, ‘Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.’ (NRSV: Mt 25:34-36)

But if you're saying "Merry Christmas" because you recognize Christ truly as Emmanuel -- God with us in those around us -- and so you're paying your employees a living wage (or advocating that others do), and you're doing something constructive about those who are hurting financially (without judging them harshly and dismissing them, as Scrooge had once done), and you're making amends to those you've harmed, then go right ahead and wish away! I'll wish you a "Merry Christmas" back.

And I'll mean it as a blessing, not as a political statement.

Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms. His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him.

(Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol, p 100)

May your hearts laugh this night, and may that be enough for you.

"God bless us, every one."


Fr. Tim, SJ

Merry Christmas to all!

I had hoped to be able to make at least a couple of phone calls to the States tonight after I got back from my various convoys outside the wire today.

However, after forty minutes of hitting "redial" (and falling asleep while doing so), because of incessant "busy" signals, I surrendered to the situation and decided to head back to my CHU to try to get some sleep tonight.

A blessed Christmas to all who are celebrating it, wherever you are. If I could speak with you, I would. Thanks for blessing my life.

A continued Happy Hanukkah / Chanuka to my other friends as you light candles this evening again.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

Thank you, Santa!

I got out of bed this morning after not having slept well, following on the heels of my 22-hour Christmas Eve extravaganza (visiting three outposts "outside the wire" via convoy, etc.). By the time I needed to get up, my body was finally saying, "I guess it's time to sleep now," so that was a bit annoying. Talk about powerlessness!

After my morning prayers I hoofed it over to the shower trailer, and found as I hustled over there, that it wasn't as frigid out this Christmas morning as it has been other mornings. Jack Frost was definitely nipping at whatever body parts he could attack, but at least permafrost wasn't setting in to my extremities. This morning, anyway.

To my utter delight, I discovered we actually had HOT water in the shower this morning. Hooray! Thank you, Santa!

Mmmmmm. Hot water on a chilly morning.

I've discovered that it's a good practice to get thankful for the small things in life. Sets the mood appropriately.

Good thing, too. As I went to towel off, it dawned on me why my nice fluffy clean-from-the-launderers bath towel was very wet in places, before I'd even used it. Someone, passing by on his way out of the showers, had knocked it off its hook. Onto the floor.

Onto the wet floor.

Onto the wet, muddy floor.

Whoever had done this had then hung the towel back up, without comment. I, unsuspecting, had then begun to try to dry myself with a wet, grimy towel. After all, who knows where that mud has been?

Sigh. Uggh.

I'm still glad for the hot water this morning, though. Thanks, Santa!

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

Christmas Day

Christmas Eve turned out to be a 22-hour day, beginning at 0300 when I dragged my sorry butt out of bed to get ready for an all-day mission by convoy that took me to three different places, all muddy. I'll try to get a photo up soon which might give some indication of what "muddy" over here means.

Tromping through the mud (we, naturally, had to park at perhaps the farthest point away from where I was going, at each place) was unlike anything I'd ever experienced before, but those of you who've experienced the delights of Iraqi mud know whereof I speak.

Since I was traveling with others who graciously included SFC McG and me in their convoy after our air travel was cancelled due to bad weather, I was under more than a bit of a time constraint to minister to my Catholic Soldiers in an abbreviated fashion. Fortunately, at least for me, "abbreviated" does not mean "unprayerful"! We prayed and sang up a storm (why is it, though, that I've been sent to the most 'musically challenged' group of people I've ever encountered?), and celebrated Christmas in a war zone.

As I moved from place to place, the mud and muck and stones would stick to the bottoms -- and sides and tops -- of my boots, making the experience a real workout. Besides being heavy, the mud is very, very, very -- did I mention, very? -- slick.

As the mud accumulated, I grew in stature several inches. My center of gravity also moved upward, and I was constantly on the verge of losing my balance. It felt as though I were on ice skates, except for the whole slipping sideways without any warning thing. The combination of slick mud, potholes, vehicles careening by, and the need for haste made for some measure of stress.

I would not have a chance to change my clothes before doing Christmas Eve Mass for my "parish" back at the ranch once I returned, and I'd managed to leave my alb back in the office, so if I were to fall into the muck and mire, I'd be saying Christmas Eve Mass looking much more disheveled than I normally do!

It's easy to see how shower shoes could get lost forever on the way to or from the shower facility when there's this kind of mud around. I see you weren't exaggerating, Jason. (I suspect that might be a first....)

Fortunately for me, I managed to get done what needed doing, not cause delays for my hosts who were chaufferring me around the battlespace, and most of my uniform stayed as clean as can be expected in this kind of environment. Christmas Eve Mass at my "parish" was great, especially after our singing carols for a half-hour beforehand.

Now I'm off to repeat the day.

More later.

Merry Christmas!

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

Christmas Eve

It's almost 180 days that I've been on Active Duty at this point -- therefore, almost twice as long as the longest stint up until now (Chaplain Basic Training) that I've been on Active Duty.

For reasons that are not clear to me, my pay stub lists me as being on "Active Duty for Training" while I'm over here Down Range. This seems a bit odd, as there doesn't seem to be much in the way of "training" going on at present, and it sure appears to *me* anyway as if this is the 'real thing' and not some run-of-the-mill FTX (field training exercise).

However, what do I know? (LTC K would probably scold me right now with, "There you go again, Chaplain, expecting the Army to make sense.")

What I *do* know, however, is that today is Christmas Eve, and I'm far away from my family and friends. It doesn't feel particularly like Christmas, truth be told, despite the liturgical lead-in that is the Advent Season.

During times like Advent I'm very grateful to belong to a liturgical worship tradition. There's a power in ritual that belies its simplicity. Of course, there's the danger that the ritual could devolve into rote repetition, but so far that's not been a pitfall which has tripped me up.

Just this past Sunday a young Captain stopped me after Mass to thank me for really celebrating the Eucharist, rather than just reciting words devoid of any real meaning or emotional connection. "I felt you were praying with me and for me, and I felt connected to you and to the others in the room and to the God who is the "with-us God" ['Immanu El; Emmanuel] you've been speaking about in your homilies during Advent."

That lifted my spirits.

I love to pray. I love to invite others to enter into the ritual action by means of the words appointed for the Presider to pray, rather than just recite. After all, it's called the "Celebration of the Eucharist"!

As an aside, I once went to a wedding (that I'd not really been invited to, but showed up to, -- from across the county -- none the less, because I was annoyed at not having received an invitation) that seemed almost as if it were a funeral. When the priest was praying, his words were barely audible, which probably was a good thing, since he seemed bored as he recited them. Perhaps he was annoyed because he was missing lunch or something.

I suspect that many of those present felt it was a very "reverent" service. (Why it is that boredom, or ennui, and/or distraction are lauded as "piety" while real joy, gratitude, awe, wonder, and engagement with the liturgical texts are decried as "irreverence" escapes me.)

I couldn't wait to escape that place, and I wasn't even getting married!

Anyway, I believe the Eucharist is supposed to be a celebration, an honest-to-goodness spiritual party in recognition of how much we are loved in the midst of the goofiness and disorder of our lives. This year's Advent readings spoke to me very clearly of "God with us" -- Emmanuel -- in the midst of all that mess.

That's something -- someone -- worth celebrating, in my book! How amazing is it that Christians have a God who has embraced the mess of the human condition? Rather than being appalled by it, or repulsed by it, or enraged by it, or bored by it, God sees the whole history of human depravity, evil, oppression, sin, sadness, grief, shame, fear (and on and on) and chooses to enter into it *personally*, completely, becoming one like us in all things but sin (cf. Heb 2:17).

While we probably rightfully ought to have this celebration surrounding the Feast of the Annunciation (the true Feast of the Incarnation) in March, we wind up acknowledging all this on the Feast of the Nativity, which we honor this night.

Hanging out as I have done, for just shy of three decades now, with women and men who go to a lot of AA and Al-Anon and NA and other 12-step programs, it seems pretty clear that the God who chose to become enfleshed chose to do so in the person of a little child -- the epitome of human powerlessness. Amazing!

¹⁴Since, therefore, the children share flesh and blood, he himself likewise shared the same things, so that through death he might destroy the one who has the power of death, that is, the devil, ¹⁵and free those who all their lives were held in slavery by the fear of death. ¹⁶For it is clear that he did not come to help angels, but the descendants of Abraham. ¹⁷Therefore he had to become like his brothers and sisters in every respect, so that he might be a merciful and faithful high priest in the service of God, to make a sacrifice of atonement for the sins of the people. ¹⁸Because he himself was tested by what he suffered, he is able to help those who are being tested. (NRSV: Heb 2:14-18)

The mystery of the Incarnation and Nativity means that nothing human is foreign to God. We are not alone. God is with us. Emmanuel.

This is indeed good news, and worth *really* celebrating.

Even here on Active Duty, Down Range, far from home and hearth.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

Chanukah

(I'd only ever spelled it "Hanukkah"(חנוכה‎) until now, but since the only Rabbi in the Army over here at the present time spells it "Chanukah," I figure I'll defer to his expertise and wisdom in this.)

Yesterday I wrote about the Winter Solstice, which also happened to be the first night of Chanukah this year. Again we have an ancient celebration which contrasts light and darkness. For the eight nights of Chanukah, Jews light candles in order to proclaim to the world the wonders and power of God, who caused the light in the Jerusalem Temple to burn miraculously for eight days, during the reign of the Seleucid king, Antiochus IV Ephiphanes, around the year 165 BCE.

At the candle-lighting each night, two prayers are said (the first night, an extra prayer is said). "Praised are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, Who performed wondrous deeds for our ancestors, in those days, at this season." "Praised are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, Who has kept us in life, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this season."

It seems to me that those lovely prayers are very apt indeed.

Happy Chanukah to Robert, Lisa, Benjamin, and Rachel; to Lester, Holly, and Lauren; to Bert; to my sober friend Bruce Z, and to all my other friends too numerous to name!

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

Discrimination

Here's another one of those titles wherein it might be good to ask oneself what reaction it engendered upon reading it. After all, since I seem to have a knack for being able to vex, irk, annoy, and otherwise bother folks with what I write, perhaps an initial assumption might be that this post is about a political/social/cultural issue which remains problematic even into the new millennium.

Well, it could be.

But it's not.

As I was in the shower the other morning, I realized that I can now correctly identify Blackhawks, Chinooks, Ospreys, and Apaches flying overhead -- just by hearing them -- as we had all of them flying over us within a short time. (They're various flavors of military rotary-wing aircraft, also known as helicopters.)

Now *there's* a statement I'd never expected myself to be able to write, about a skill I'd certainly never imagined acquiring!

That's discrimination I can live with.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

Solstice

The longest night of the year.

As one who has struggled for most of my life (it seems) against "Seasonal Affective Disorder" -- with the highly appropriate acronym, SAD -- I'm very aware of the Winter Solstice. The most darkness in a single day in the latitudes where I usually hang out. The least amount of daylight. Yuk.

It's probably not a surprise that human societies have marked the Winter Solstice, seemingly as long as there have been human societies in Northern Hemisphere temperate latitudes, from what I can tell. Also not a surprise that those acknowledgments take place in the darkness using light from fires of one sort or another.

I hadn't realized how many Wiccans there are in the Army until I joined the Chaplaincy. Lest people get their panties in a bunch about this, Wiccans are not devil-worshipers. The Wiccans I know have a reverence for the earth that could put to shame the way many of us treat the environment around us.

After all, the Hebrew Scriptures say, in the first creation story (Genesis 1:1 - 2:4b) that after creating, "God saw everything that he had made, and indeed, it was very good. And there was evening and there was morning, the sixth day." (NRSV Gen 1:31) Who are we Christians and Jews then to disrepect God's creative activity in such a cavalier fashion that we pollute and destroy the beauty of this creation?

My Wiccan friends celebrate the wonders of nature and the bounty of the earth, and seek to protect the earth from the ravages that we humans can inflict upon the environment.

How appropriate that they're bringing that light into the darkness of environmental destruction, especially at the Winter Solstice.

Blessings and peace to one and all on the longest night of the year,


Fr. Tim, SJ

A sweet generosity

Now that it's gotten downright cold here, people have begun to send M&Ms through the mail. Hooray!! They seem to be the "candy of choice" for the 21st Century American Soldier.

(Well, at least for *this* 21st Century American Army Chaplain....)

Anyway, many, many thanks to those of you who've done so.

When the weather was so hot, and SFC McG and I had to fly somewhere, I took to putting four bottles of water into the freezer and freezing them solid prior to leaving for the LZ (landing zone). I'd hand them to one of the gunners to share with each of the crew members (the two pilots (Officers or Warrant Officers) and the gunners (both Enlisted)). With the temperature in the aircraft easily being 109 degrees (according to my thermometer, which is pretty accurate), the crew seemed very appreciative.

Now that it's frigid air (get it, "Frigidaire"?) flying, I figure that frozen water is probably not quite as appropriate.

That's where the M&Ms come in.

SFC McG and I wind up flying on a lot these days (finally!). It turns out that the Enlisted Soldiers who serve as gunners on those aircraft really love M&Ms. I've taken to giving those candies to the gunners as they're leading us from the flight line to the aircraft. Even with their 'Darth Vader' headgear on, I can see the smiles break forth.

I suspect they don't have many passengers who do that for them.

(Since I have only a finite amount of goodies to disburse, and since Warrants and Officers get more perks than do the Enlisted, I'm focusing YOUR largesse upon the Enlisted Soldiers. With two gunners on each of the flights we take per mission -- at least two flights, maybe more -- that's at least four gunners (or more!) who need M&Ms per day. It adds up.)

You will be enriched in every way for your great generosity, which will produce thanksgiving to God through us; for the rendering of this ministry not only supplies the needs of the saints but also overflows with many thanksgivings to God. (NRSV: 2Cor 9:11-12)

Thanks for making their lives a little better through your generosity!

Happy Fourth Sunday of Advent, too.

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

Heartache

For years now I've been privileged to accompany people on their life's journey, even if only for a very short time, because they've taken the risk of inviting me along. Usually it's in the context of the Sacrament of Reconciliation, but doesn't necessarily need to be so.

I've always found myself humbled by their trust, and in awe of their burdens.

Here in Iraq it's no different. Again and again I find myself amazed at the pain shouldered by decent human beings, even though it may be of their own making. Again and again I find myself suffused with a suffering-with (com-passion) as they share their joys and sorrows and shames and fears with me.

Fifteen-month deployments exacerbate otherwise difficult situations, it seems.

Thank God my friends who go to a lot of Al-Anon meetings have taught me that "Messiah" is not part of *my* job description!

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

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The fly

It seems as though when there are flies around, there are clouds of them, even if there aren't. The flies over here are especially rapacious, and won't take "no" for an answer. I've never seen flies as persistent and focused as these creatures are.

It's as if they have homing devices, all set to 'human flesh'.

This is all the more annoying given the fact that there's so much else over here for a fly to love. By and large, this place is a dump, though the second- and third-timers here tell me the place is immaculate compared to what it once was.

Ugh.

Anyway, with the hectares of garbage lying around, ripening for their gustatory satisfaction, these flies ought to have better things to do than to dive-bomb us. Especially as SFC McG and I are waiting for aircraft to come pick us up to take us somewhere.

Lately, it seems as though SFC McG and I are spending a LOT of time waiting for aircraft. (To go outside the wire to do Mass (about 45 minutes' duration, max) is taking at least eight hours, and has taken as long as 14 hours.) So during this Advent, the season of waiting, he and I have spent an inordinate amount of time looking to the clouds of heaven for the one(s) who'll take us home.

One night, we were supposed to be collected at 0019 (nineteen minutes after midnight), after celebrating Mass at 1900 (7 p.m.). The birds finally arrived at 0310. We'd left the office at 1330, so by the time I got "home" to my CHU (containerized housing unit), it was 0430.

Makes for a long day.

And a lot of flies.

Especially the dastardly ones whose mission, it seems, is to prevent me from snoozing -- I mean, doing my prayers -- while waiting for the choppers to show up. SFC McG can sleep through anything, so at times he looks like a pitiful third-world child in a TV commercial starring Sally Struthers, except that he's sound asleep.

Sometimes I really hate that about him....

I, on the other hand, figure I look like I'm in a TV sketch as Larry, Moe, and Curly all at the same time, slapping myself upside the head. Makes for difficult snoozing -- I mean, praying.

So there I was in my CHU, and a blasted fly would just not leave me alone. It was actually cold in the CHU, since I'm not sleeping with the heater on (I woke up being able to see my breath one morning recently -- and it's not because I'd not brushed my teeth the night before, Jason!), so one would figure these creatures would slow down and at least make themselves easy targets.

However, I don't have a fly swatter, and these insects seem to be much more agile and adept at avoiding impending doom than domestic flies at home. It never ceases to amaze me how one little thing (like a fly) can become the nexus of all the annoyances in my life, and drive me to the brink.

Perhaps it's from being tired most of the time. Perhaps it's from not getting enough real exercise (15- to 18-hour days don't leave much time to pump iron...). Perhaps it's the hype of the holidays hitting home. Perhaps it's simply that I'm a curmudgeon. I'm not sure what all was behind it, but I found myself really wanting to exact revenge on that fly.

I wanted to make him pay. I was going to show him who's the boss!

Not a pretty sight, to be sure. Certainly not the picture of sobriety and serenity, as I'm careening around my room, swatting here and there, muttering imprecations under my breath (at least I hope they were under my breath!). As I became more and more aware of becoming Lady Macbeth, I had a spiritual awakening.

Especially after I'd finally trapped the fly in a bowl into which it'd landed. (The bowl had the as-yet-uncleaned remains of my microwave macaroni and cheese (mmmmm) snack from earlier in the evening, and had evidently distracted the little beastie long enough to allow me to place a book atop the bowl, finally delivering the offender into my clutches.)

As I contemplated how to mete out an appropriate punishment upon this tiny emissary of Satan, I managed to take a couple of deep breaths and realize I was in the middle of a spiritual awakening. I really hate it when that happens, because it means that what I've so carefully planned to do, and have been so looking forward to doing, probably ain't gonna happen, after all. Rats!

Of course, I could choose to ignore the inward promptings of the Spirit. God knows, so much of my life exemplifies that! But I've learned over the years of painful (and slow!) recovery from alcoholism that I ignore the still, small voice in the depth of my heart at my own peril.

So I took some deep breaths, and knew what needed to be done. Nuts!

I wrestled like Jacob on his ladder with this inner spirit, but only reluctantly, as if for show. Because I knew what I needed to do, for myself, in the mist of this war zone.

I opened the door of my CHU, walked outside in my stocking feet, closed the door of my CHU, and let the fly go free.

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

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Job

So, given that this blog is published by a Chaplain, but during a time of dramatic economic and employment downturn, did you think long-O "Job" (as in the-patience-of), or short-O "job" (as in I'm-about-to-lose-mine) as you scanned the title of this post?

Something to think about, I guess.

Because of the tanking of the world-wide economy, my civilian employer's investments have decreased dramatically in value. Not long ago, I received an email from the President of the University, explaining how dire the financial situation had become. A few days later I received an email from the Chair of my Department indicating that they need to reduce expenses by at least 20%, which means a reduction in the workforce in the Department.

This could mean I'll have no job to come back to when I return after my year-long deployment over here Down Range. I wouldn't be the first Reservist to whom this happens, should it eventuate. However, I also wouldn't be out on the streets, as so many military veterans are -- to the inestimable shame of the United States -- were this to come about.

It took some doing for me to end up here in Iraq, wearing the uniform of the United States Army, what with being an old fart with no prior service and all. Chaplains can only serve in the US military if they have a current Endorsement from a recognized endorsing agency. There are eleventy-seven endorsing agents for Protestant Chaplains (I've counted them), but only one for Roman Catholics, the Archdiocese for the Military Services (AMS).

In order for me to get the endorsement of the AMS, I have to have the permission of my religious superior. For diocesan priests, that permission would come from their bishop, but in my religious order, the person granting permission is my Provincial. It's not clear to me who was more shocked in this process, my Provincial for being asked to consider this request, or myself for submitting it and being given permission to seek a Commission in the Army National Guard.

I'm grateful to Bob for his prayerful discernment, and his openness to being surprised by God's weird sense of humor. However, after granting me permission, first to join the Army, and then to get deployed for this present mission, he sent me a snail-mail letter indicating his skepticism that my being in uniform was an adequate use of my doctorate in molecular neurobiology. (That's probably an understatement!) It was thus his intention that my Endorsement would end upon my redeployment.

I was hoping to come over here and be worked so endlessly doing priest-things that I'd be able to go back and make the case for the pastoral necessity of my staying in the Reserve Component.

Oh well. At least I'm getting outside the wire a lot more lately than was the case for the past two months! If nothing else, this deployment can become an extended exercise in 'practicing being satisfied'.

So now, looming on the horizon could well be a return to the States at the end of this mission to find myself without my civilian job *and* without my military Commission.

Fortunately, when confronted by this sort of scary scenario, I've been taught by my friends who go to AA and Al-Anon meetings to pause, breathe, and ask myself to name ten true things about the present moment. Then, I've learned, I need to do 'the next right thing'.

The next right thing for me to do is to go take a shower.

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat, or about your body, what you will wear. ²³For life is more than food, and the body more than clothing. ²⁴Consider the ravens: they neither sow nor reap, they have neither storehouse nor barn, and yet God feeds them. Of how much more value are you than the birds! ²⁵And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life? ²⁶If then you are not able to do so small a thing as that, why do you worry about the rest? ²⁷Consider the lilies, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. ²⁸But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, how much more will he clothe you—you of little faith! (NRSV: Lk 12:22-28)

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

(I wonder if there are any molecular (neuro)biology teaching slots available at the Army Medical Department Center and School at Fort Sam Houston or at the Uniformed Services University of the Health Sciences in Bethesda....)

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Peer pressure

Because of the nature of Army rank structure, Officers of similar rank often sit together in the DFAC (Dining Facility). Very often groups of Captains or Majors or Lieutenant Colonels will move en masse to or from the Headquarters at meal times.

When I see this, I'm often reminded of the schooling behavior of fish, or the movement of herds of hooved creatures across the plains of the Serengeti.

Lately I found myself wondering that if we refer to "prides" of lions, "gaggles" of geese, and "exaltations" of larks, what might the collective nouns be that would describe the curious movements of my fellow Officers? (I'm especially fond of the notion of an "exaltation" of larks.)

It seems to me that in a discussion of this sort among some of my Jesuit brethren a few years ago, some wag came up with the notion of a "cacophony" of pundits, a "rudeness" of New Yorkers (he being from New York), a "condemnation" of televangelists, and a "condescension" (or was it "conspiracy"?) of Jesuits.

I'm not going to venture a guess as to what the collective nouns might be for groups of Lieutenants, or Captains, or Majors, or Lieutenant Colonels, but it might be fun to try!

As I was considering these various groupings of peers it occurred to me that my Army "peer group" consists of Soldiers who, by and large, are more than 20 years my junior. Many of them are more than young enough to be my children. This is especially true of the Lieutenants I hang out with (there are actually very few of them around where I work, so they often meet up with us Captains).

In conversations amongst ourselves, it's clear that we're very different in terms of just about everything but rank. While my fellow Captains have been in the Army probably four to six years longer than I have, I've been a Jesuit for 30 years. More often than not, I wind up feeling more avuncular than fraternal when I'm with them. (It's probably only a matter of time before they lock me in the attic, which is what happens to the crazy uncle in a 'respectable' family.)

I'm nearer in age to, but older than most of the field-grade Officers (and above) around here, with the exception of some of the medical personnel and a very few others. Though I am much closer in age to these Soldiers, there are only two of them (both a couple of years younger, but two pay grades above me) who speak to me more or less as a 52-year-old.

Because of the rank structure of the Army I almost never have "peer" conversations with people my own age.

This fact struck me as very odd today, for some reason. Not bad, mind you. Just odd. Another thing to chalk up to the Toto-I-don't-think-we're-in-Kansas-anymore nature of having joined the Army in my dotage, I guess!

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

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Decorum, please

I received an anonymous, very ugly, and possibly libelous comment -- about one of my friends, by name -- a couple of days ago, in response to a recent blog post of mine. I deleted it from the comments section, but am presenting it here (in redacted form to remove the full name and one other personal identifier from the screed). I figure we can all use this as a so-called 'teaching moment'.

Here's the anonymous comment:

I was trying to figure out what a priest would find enjoyable about reading [her] book [name withheld] since it is written about a mother's experience but now that I see that she is your friend.... However, this is a woman who openly wrote that she has had countless abortions, and writes of her hatred of others (Republicans). She also has a "filthy-mouth" way of expressing herself, at least in the written form. I would think that a priest would choose more "appropriate" friends.

Where even to begin?

Readers of this blog are more than welcome to post trash-talking, nasty, condescending, and even vicious comments ABOUT ME in response to what I've written here, but you are not welcome to trash my friends by name. Such comments about my friends will be deleted. One has only to peruse the blog to find examples of such comments directed my way which I've left posted.

I have gone to great lengths to hide the full names of anyone I mention via this medium, as a means of observing OPSEC (operational security). You'll notice that my full name is nowhere to be found, though it's easily discovered by anyone who cares to look. (After someone tattled to military mugwumps about one of my blog posts, *they* had no trouble whatsoever finding me within a matter of moments, it seems, to 'ream me a new one', despite the fact that I'd not yet registered the blog with the Army.)

So, this is not an anonymous blog. I stand by what I've written, and can be held accountable for my opinions (which, by virtue of being mine, are ipso facto correct!).

{insert wry smiley face here}

Negative comments, left anonymously, imply that the person leaving the comment does not have the courage of his or her convictions. As I have mentioned previously, before I stopped drinking more than 29 years ago, if we'd have had blogs at the time, I'd have left comments anonymously, too -- so I can identify with the allure of that kind of behavior.

I'm grateful I do not live with that kind of fear anymore.

Concerning specifics of the comment reproduced above: I checked with my friend, and she has nowhere written "that she has had countless abortions." At least get your facts straight if you're going to make such accusations, Anonymous Sir/Ma'am! Libel is a serious legal issue.

Furthermore, while I'm a long-time registered Republican (having voted for Gerald Ford in my first Presidential election), I'm able to see past my friend's rather impassioned rhetorical flights of fancy, agree with much of what she's written, and take no umbrage at the rest.

Moreover, I'm in the ARMY, in case you'd not realized that from the title of this blog, Sir/Ma'am, and I've been treated to much more 'flowery' language in this context than anything my friend has published!

As to "appropriate" friends, Sir/Ma'am: My friend has been clean and sober now for many, many years, and has been through many a wringer in that time, and stayed sober through it all. Her experience, strength, and hope have inspired, consoled, cajoled, annoyed, delighted, dazzled, and daunted me for many years now. I figure I can hardly do better, in the friends department.

It seems to me that Jesus could have been friends with the "beautiful people" of his day, who were practically perfect in every way (and made sure that everyone else knew it). Now, *they* were "appropriate"!

Instead, he hung out with the dregs of society -- he even *ate* with sinners, and got slammed for doing so by the (self-) righteous. One of the contemporary criticisms of Jesus himself was that "the Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they say, ‘Look, a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners!’"(NRSV: Mt. 11:19; see also Lk 7:34)

Jesus knew first-hand what it was like to have 'lower companions' (he was even accused of being one!) and he embraced them all with love.

Matthew, the tax collector was, by definition, a slimeball par excellence, yet Jesus called him, and he followed the Lord.

Zacchaeus was likewise an extortionist who preyed upon very poor people who were already living close to the bone financially, yet Jesus dined at his house, to the horror of the -- dare we say it -- "appropriate" people of his day.

Peter was a fisher (not a profession noted for its intellectual prowess and academic polish), who -- when the crunch came -- denied Jesus three times.

Judas betrayed him, which led directly to Jesus' death.

Contrary to the social and legal conventions of his day, Jesus pardoned a woman caught in adultery.

The list could go on and on.

And let's not even look to the Hebrew Scriptures to one such as King David, the polygamist who raped a woman, tried to get her righteous husband to sleep with her in order to make him think the baby (Solomon) was his, and then murdered him when that ruse didn't work, in order to hide his crime of rape.... "Appropriate," indeed.

(Let's hear it for the Biblical defense of traditional marriage!)

Amazing that God could use King David to be the author of the Psalms, eh, rapist and murderer that he was? I rather like the Psalms, and am glad they convey so much truth and beauty.

If God can work through someone so powerfully goofy as David, or Matthew, or Peter, or YOU, anonymous Sir/Ma'am, then being able to send my friend to be a gift in my life and in the lives of others is a no-brainer for my Higher Power.

That being said, there might even be hope that God could use someone as "inappropriate" as me to be an occasion of grace in someone else's life.

My friend's shared experience, strength, and hope have been blessings in my life certainly beyond my ability to comprehend or articulate. I thank God that our paths crossed in 1990, and have been crossing every so often since then. Who could be more "appropriate"?

There's only one, two-part question I have for you, Anonymous Sir/Ma'am: Which of your parents was the alcoholic, and when are you going to join my friends who go to Al-Anon to find some healing for those wounds? Please keep coming back. Let us love you until you can love yourself.

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

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The moon, 12DEC08

SFC McG and I were waiting for the birds to come pick us up on Friday night (we lucked out that night: they came to us; we didn't have to be driven to the landing zone (LZ) to board) when the moon rose in the east just as the sun was setting. I took out my camera and attempted to capture some of the magnificence of the sight, but of course it's not a great camera to begin with, and what with my "idiopathic benign essential tremor" (I shake a lot; looks like I've got the DTs sometimes, ironically), my hopes for an award-winning shot were dashed.

All that notwithstanding, however, the moon appeared larger and brighter and more intense than I remembered it, perhaps since I was in the Amazon in the early 90s. It looked as though I could see every one of the Man in the Moon's zits. Amazing.

Once we were in the air and headed south, though, the real treat greeted us. The setting sun emblazoned the western sky with every color of the spectrum, as if the light were being refracted through a giant prism. Which of course it was, but I never really did like physics class....

There are no terrain features to speak of in that direction, so the prismatic color was unbroken by either earth or the cloudless sky. I have never seen a more dazzling color display at sunset. I suspect the dust in the air (though negligible these days compared to what it has been since we arrived) might have contributed to the aerial palette we saw.

SFC McG and I were the only two passengers on the aircraft, so I got to sit next to the window, as is my wont. The moonlight lasered its rather sterile whiteness into the aircraft over my right shoulder (I was facing the rear of the chopper) while the impassioned colors being pulled from sight along the western horizon by the setting sun bathed us in a warm multicolor glow from the left.

It seemed as if the lights were dueling for attention. I was transfixed, but getting a crick in my neck from having to look back and forth, trying not to miss any of the experience. Strapped into the seat by shoulder and lap belts, and wearing full battle rattle (as they say in Army parlance), I had much less freedom of movement than I'd have preferred in the moment. However, given my recent experience of 'tactical evasive movements' on the part of military aircraft, I was nevertheless glad to be buckled in!

Humbled by my relative smallness in the face of the expansiveness of the landscape below and light show above, I was reminded of the poem, "God's Grandeur" by Gerard Manley Hopkins (a Jesuit with some *real* talent!):

THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod; 5
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things; 10
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs­
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

My sober friend Sam (who, when asked once if he were a Jesuit because he was hanging around me so much, responded: "No, I have a life.") would probably just say, "God was showing off again."

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Many thanks, OPERATION MOM!

A special shout-out to all of the wonderful people at OPERATION MOM in California, and to two of them in particular.

I met Jim and Beverly within a month of joining the Guard. I had just purchased the Class A (green) uniform, and the night I met them was the first time I'd worn it in public. (MAJ P, whom I also met for the first time that night, had to perform some on-the-spot corrections in terms of how I looked. He, of course, has a chest full of ribbons and other devices, while my uniform was/is devoid of all that.)

It was an evening in late January, and fairly cool-ish for being California. MAJ P and I, having reconnoitered at a Starbucks neither of us had ever been to before, showed up at Jim and Beverly's home, unannounced. I was inwardly terrified, and was saying the Serenity Prayer over and over and over to myself. (My friends who go to AA and Al-Anon meetings have recommended this to me for years, and I've even found myself recommending it to others. Amazing how that happens....)

Jim came to the door of their lovely home on a quiet street in a part of the Bay Area I'd passed by before, but never really visited. He showed us in to the living room, where Beverly was seated on a chair across the room from where I sat down, next to Jim on my right. MAJ P sat directly across from me, and though the room was comfy and intimate, he seemed almost a world away.

Just after MAJ P started speaking, Jim reached over and grabbed my right hand. He began to squeeze it, and didn't let go for what seemed an eternity to me.

"The Secretary of the Army regrets to inform you," began MAJ P. Jim and Beverly's son, SPC Michael, had been killed in action that morning in Iraq. I had had no training in the Army way of doing anything like this, and yet there I was. Wearing the dress uniform of the United States Army, I was present as these good people were informed that their beloved younger son had died while on patrol with his buddies, half-way around the world.

I was saying the Serenity Prayer like mad to myself as my hand developed gangrene, I was sure. Jim was holding on for dear life and did not let go for a long, long time.

And then, as my friend Annie L has written, "a little red wagon miracle" occurred. The situation did not change. There was no flash of celestial light and blaring of heavenly trumpets, but a miracle none the less took place in that room.

"...And if I don't drink in the next three weeks, I'll have 17 years clean and sober," Jim said. Jim had been talking about his own experiences in the Army during Vietnam, and about how proud of Michael he and Beverly were. And he mentioned that he'd gotten through a lot since getting sober, so he figured he'd be able to get through even this, too.

The very next day I would celebrate 10000 days in a row of being clean and sober. (My friends who go to AA meetings say that sobriety is a day-at-a-time thing....)

When I mentioned this to Jim and Beverly, they both visibly relaxed a little. Something in that room changed. All of a sudden there was a bond there that transcended that moment and its horror. We actually laughed at how weird God's sense of humor is.

Who'd have imagined that the Chaplain who would show up at their home would be a Chaplain who shared that experience and spirituality and vocabulary with them (all the more humorous, given that they're Baptists and I'm not)?

It was, indeed, "a little red wagon miracle."

Over the next weeks, as we buried Michael far from home, and then had a memorial service in the church where his family has worshipped for generations, Jim and Beverly and MAJ P and I became friends. I suspect that may not always be the case with Guard personnel who perform casualty notifications for Active Duty personnel.

I was able to be there with Jim and Beverly as Jim celebrated his sober birthday in February. No "little red wagon miracle" that! That was an honest-to-God, God-is-showing-off-again walking-on-water miracle, as sober birthdays usually are.

Jim and Beverly had been active in OPERATION MOM for some time before I met them in January 2007. OPERATION MOM sends wonderful care packages to deployed military personnel, and Jim and Beverly invited me to one of their meetings shortly after I met them. Those good folks get together and make a party out of planning, shopping for, packing, and sending those boxes.

I received a boat-load of them a short time ago, and they created a huge sensation among the Soldiers who received them. It was heartwarming to watch as eyes got big as the box was opened: a velour blanket: 'Ooohh!'; a thumb drive: 'Wow!'; a shrink-wrapped DVD blockbuster movie: 'I've wanted to see this!'; white socks: 'Mine have holes in them -- I can *really* use these!' -- and those were just *my* reactions (yes, I kept a box for myself).

Many, many thanks to OPERATION MOM for taking the time to plan and execute this mission.

Special thanks to Jim for his courageous and honorable service in the Army during Vietnam, and to Michael and all those who have served honorably and well during the present conflicts.

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

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372

Today is the 372nd birthday of the Army National Guard.

Many thanks to all the Citizen-Soldiers who have served honorably and well both domestically and abroad! I'm especially grateful to the Soldiers of the former 1-149 Armor Battalion and the former 340th Forward Support Battalion who encouraged me to pursue a Commission, squared me away once I was accessioned, and taught me to "embrace the suck". I miss you Soldiers a lot!

Happy Birthday, Guard!

Hooah.

Blessings and peace to one and all,

Fr. Tim, SJ

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No matter how far down the scale -- part I

My friends who go to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings have for years talked about "The Promises" of the program, which are found in their eponymous 'Big Book':

If we are painstaking about this phase of our development, we will be amazed before we are half way through. We are going to know a new freedom and a new happiness. We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it. We will comprehend the word serenity and we will know peace. No matter how far down the scale we have gone, we will see how our experience can benefit others. That feeling of uselessness and self-pity will disappear. We will lose interest in selfish things and gain interest in our fellows. Self-seeking will slip away. Our whole attitude and outlook upon life will change. Fear of people and of economic insecurity will leave us. We will intuitively know how to handle situations which used to baffle us. We will suddenly realize that God is doing for us what we could not do for ourselves.

Are these extravagant promises? We think not.

They are being fulfilled among us - sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. They will always materialize if we work for them.

Alcoholics Anonymous pp. 83-84.

Over the years of speaking with people struggling with addictions (or the family consequences thereof), I've seen the truth of those words as I've shared about my own experience, strength, and hope concerning sobriety. At first, almost 30 years ago now, when my friends who would go to those meetings would share their wisdom about recovery with me, I figured that what the 'promise' that reads, "No matter how far down the scale we have gone, we will see how our experience can benefit others" means is that the lowest of the low-bottom drunks *really* know what's what.

The implication (in my own broken brain, of course) that followed on the heels of that notion was that a high-bottom drunk like myself could never have anything significant to contribute to a conversation about recovery. After all, I'd not lost a job, or a family, or wrecked a car, or awakened with my head in the refrigerator, or "come to" in a foreign country married to someone I did not recognize (true stories I've heard people tell).

(At least, not yet, as I've since learned. That could all happen, easily. It just hasn't happened yet.)

*Those people* with the bizarre and exciting stories were the people to listen to, who had something important to share, my brain tried to tell me. What good would my, rather vanilla, experience be to someone else? After all, I just drank, passed out, and threw up (in that order). Certainly not as 'glamourous' as having a spectacular slip on alcohol, cocaine, and crystal meth in the hotel room next door to the Secret Service contingent assigned to the President of the United States as he was on a re-election campaign swing in the midwest a few years back (another true story I heard)!

So for years as I hung out with recovering alcoholics and addicts and their hostages (I mean, families), I felt like something of a fraud. Less than. Not quite good enough. "Doesn't quite fit in, poor thing."

The 'tyranny of what others might think' -- which had plagued me all of my life up to the point of getting clean and sober -- followed me into sobriety and lurked in the darkest reaches of my psyche for years afterward.

A wonderful recovery tag-team married couple, Gil and Dorothy (he: sober; she: Al-Anon), took me under their wing in 1979 shortly after I stopped drinking and using, and they shared their recovery experience, strength, and hope with me as best they could. Given that I was then the poster-child for egomania-with-an-inferiority-complex, it's definitely not their fault that I made such slow progress!

Gil died 30 years sober more than a decade ago now, but Dorothy still goes to Al-Anon meetings and is into her fifth decade of recovery. What a great lady!

Anyway, it wasn't until quite a number of years into my own sobriety that I had a spiritual awakening about the whole no-matter-how-far-down-the-scale thing. I'd been hearing my sober friends who go to meetings talk about those 'promises' for so long that one day I realized that "no matter how far down" meant that even "high-bottom" drunks have experience that can benefit others! Wow.

For years I'd been comparing my insides to other people's outsides.

That's a recipe for spiritual disaster, I've learned. Just having a wild drinking story (or Al-Anon story, like the woman who (before Al-Anon) guided her once-again-for-the-eleventy-seventh-time-drunk husband into the bathtub, filled it with water, beat him senseless with a board, and then was holding his head under the water when she had a spiritual awakening of sorts along the lines of, "who's really the sick one here?" -- and later, when he finally came to the next morning, commiserated with him that he'd been in yet another bar fight he couldn't remember -- absolutely true story) is not the measure of recovery.

Once I stopped *comparing* the externals of my story to others' and began *identifying with* the feelings they were sharing (or at least, identified with *more than* I compared), I began to feel more a part of, less less-than, and much less a fraud.

Truely, no matter how far down the scale we have gone, we will come to see how our experience can benefit others.

That's how the spiritual life works. Not surprisingly, in AA's "Big Book," just before the passage I quoted at the beginning of this post are two sentences, one in italics, which read, "The spiritual life is not a theory. We have to live it."

When I'm living the spiritual life, I'm connected to others who are trudging the same road of Happy Destiny. Whatever our religious backgrounds (or none), we can have a spirituality which unites us in the sunlight of the spirit. These days I like to say that spirituality is "an acceptance of powerlessness, shared in gratitude, resulting in joyful service."

That definition works well in my own particular religious tradition (as a Christian, as some of you know, I have a God who, in Jesus, knows powerlessness first-hand, and so, in addition to being a Higher Power, is also a Higher Powerlessness), and it seems to fit with the traditions of other religions as well. It also works for those who are without religion at the moment.

Hooray!

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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