Before the feast of Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to pass from this world to the Father. He loved his own in the world and he loved them to the end. The devil had already induced Judas, son of Simon the Iscariot, to hand him over. So, during supper, fully aware that the Father had put everything into his power and that he had come from God and was returning to God, he rose from supper and took off his outer garments. He took a towel and tied it around his waist. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and dry them with the towel around his waist. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, “Master, are you going to wash my feet?” Jesus answered and said to him, “What I am doing, you do not understand now, but you will understand later.” Peter said to him, “You will never wash my feet.” Jesus answered him, “Unless I wash you, you will have no inheritance with me.” Simon Peter said to him, “Master, then not only my feet, but my hands and head as well.” Jesus said to him, “Whoever has bathed has no need except to have his feet washed, for he is clean all over; so you are clean, but not all.” For he knew who would betray him; for this reason, he said, “Not all of you are clean.”
So when he had washed their feet and put his garments back on and reclined at table again, he said to them, “Do you realize what I have done for you? You call me ‘teacher’ and ‘master,’ and rightly so, for indeed I am. If I, therefore, the master and teacher, have washed your feet, you ought to wash one another’s feet. I have given you a model to follow, so that as I have done for you, you should also do.”
Last time we got together I hinted at a discussion about Behavioral Finance, an area primarily devoted to investor behavior. Today, however, I want to look at it in light of stewardship.
Behavioral Finance postulates that people make irrational money decisions because it hurts more to lose than it feels good to win. In the area of stewardship, this emotional response drives us to avoid sharing our gifts of treasure in some instances or to be less generous with than we might picture ourselves as being in others. We define losing as being involved in a less than successful venture and we will do all we can to avoid that situation because losing hurts.
Let’s say that you are in a discussion with Max from your parish. Max is talking to you about a project that helps teens remain faithfully Catholic after they get out of high school. A faithful, prayerful man, Max is known to focus more on his worldly knowledge than prayerful discernment. But he is convinced that the project will be successful and shows you his plans, materials and budget. Knowing that Max gets most things right, you become interested in helping out. While you have interest in the project, the fact that Max seems poised for success means that it is likely that your support will allow you to experience success as well. Max needs an additional $2,000 to get the project up and running and asks you to contribute that amount. You believe that your odds of winning far exceed your odds of losing and you tell Max you are in.
Now let’s say you are having a conversation with Father Mike. Father Mike is a great guy, a wonderful pastor, and the Holy Spirit is alive in everything he does. He mentions that he has an idea how to keep Catholic teens engaged in their faith after they graduate from high school. He has a general idea of how he wants to get this done, but admittedly doesn’t have a detailed – or any – real plan. But he knows he is to proceed with the project because the idea came to him during prayer, and he has prayed about it for weeks. He keeps coming to the same conclusion – trust in the Holy Spirit to guide him, and he will succeed. You ask him how much he needs to get things rolling and he says “I’m not sure. Maybe $2,000, but it’s just a guess.” Father Mike has not made up a budget for the project, does not have a timeline, and has no training in finance or project management. You tell him “Good luck, Father. I hope this works out for you.”
Why did you commit to Max but wash your hands of Father Mike? Because you came to the conclusion that Max has a far better chance of success than Father Mike. You are comforted by budgets, timelines, meetings, agendas and reports. Max has those and Father Mike does not. You don’t want to be part of a project that you don’t think will succeed because it hurts more to lose than it feels good to win.
But Father Mike has faith emanating from prayer and discernment. He has cast his trust upon the Holy Spirit to bring the teens of his parish closer to Christ. He is a great believer in the axiom “God will provide” and he knows things will work out well.
Behavioral Finance tells us that we are far more likely to help out Max than we are Father Mike, but our faith tells us to abandon the spreadsheets and listen to the answers that come from prayer. Just imagine if the Apostles had made their decision to follow Jesus based on the likelihood of success.
As stewards, we are committed to caring for the gifts with which God has graced us. We are reassured by spreadsheets and audit reports, which are necessary and expected, yet we are called to a greater faith in doing God’s work, where prayer and discernment are far more important than an income statement. Those are the times we respond to an improbable, illogical call that looks like it doomed from the beginning by saying “Sure. I’ll help.”
As always, thanks for reading. I would love to hear from you. Write to me at email@example.com.
My last two posts were titled respectively “Time” and “Talent.” Today we work on the third T, the third leg of the stewardship stool, treasure.
I saved treasure for last because I didn’t want to upset the natural order of things. I could have chosen to present them in reverse order – treasure, talent, time – but that just feels so wrong when I think it or say it. But I also saved “treasure” for last because it is the most emotionally charged of the three Ts and is certainly the most complicated of the three. A good friend of mine once told me that complex questions require complex answers, and, while not a question. “treasure” is nonetheless a complex item and requires a more complex analysis.
That means that we won’t finish it today. Over the course of this column and the next two, look for more food for thought on this subject. Even then, we will only scratch the surface of treasure with respect to its place within stewardship.
First, let’s not use euphemisms where truth is clear. When we refer to “treasure” here, we are talking about money. And, lest you think you are being duped into someone – yours truly – setting you up for an “ask” at the end of this, don’t worry. That is not going to happen.
I have spent most of my working life dealing with money. Not just earning wages for producing something, but being in the middle of the exchange of money. In the investment business, I advised my clients to take their money and invest it to meet their needs. In my work of stewardship and development in the Church, I match the works of the Church with the people of God. Being in the middle of these relationships for more than three decades has given me a unique perspective on money, seeing how it affects people as they earn it, save it, spend it, and give it away.
I have worked with people who were wealthy and viewed money not just as a means to accumulate more worldly goods but as a method of keeping score. They would measure themselves against their peers, basing their value as human beings in terms of their net worth measured against the other members of their group. If they bought another house, another car, or another business, it was never because they needed it for sustenance. It was about how much they have compared to others.
The problem with that, gaining a sense of superiority over others based on possessions and account balances, is that, unless you are Jeff Bezos, there is always going to be somebody richer than you. That is one of the factors that drives people to work harder to accumulate more so they can keep up, but not take so many chances that they would lose what they already have.
That’s the first item to really understand about money and our relationship with it, i.e. it has an emotional chokehold on us of which is extraordinarily powerful. We find that our emotions can drive us to do things to make money that, if we were looking at it from an outside and objective viewpoint, we would never consider doing. Not dishonest things, but working longer hours, sacrificing time with family, compromising our health, and causing distractions in our lives that affect our relationships with God and those closest to us. We are willing to engage in those harmful and illogical behaviors because we believe the trade-off of greater wealth is worth the price.
A few weeks ago in this space, we shared some ideas with you about the stewardship concept of time. Today we will look into talent.
I have a Caravaggio (1571-1610) print hanging in my office. Not the original of course, but a digital reproduction on foam board, complete with a wrinkled corner from falling off the wall and striking the floor. It’s “The Calling of St. Matthew and depicts Jesus and Peter visiting Matthew, calling him to follow Jesus.
I was first turned on to this painting by a friend of mine, Father Jim Heiser, pastor at St. Stephens Indian Mission on the Wind River Reservation in Wyoming. Years ago, he asked me if I was familiar with Caravaggio and this piece. When I answered in the negative, he sent me a text with a copy of the painting.
For more than a decade, I have included in my email the verse from Matthew’s Gospel that describes how the apostle came to be called by Jesus in spite of his sinful past as a tax collector. “As Jesus passed on from there, he saw a man named Matthew sitting at the customs post. He said to him ‘Follow me.’ And he got up and followed him.” (Mt 9:9) The Caravaggio painting depicts this moment, although the characters in the painting are dressed in garb of Renaissance Italian men, not first century Jews.
Notice that there wasn’t any hesitation in Matthew’s response to the call. Rather, he just got up from his place of comfort and followed Jesus.
In 2010, I heard the Lord call me to leave my business and go to work for the Church in Cheyenne. After an awful lot of prayer and discernment, I did just that.
I assumed I would spend the rest of my working days serving the Church in Wyoming, where I had lived for 35 years, raised a family and built a business. But God didn’t place any parameters regarding the place and time for that work around his call and my assumption was wrong.
Nine years later I was called to leave Cheyenne and come here. So following a great deal of prayer and discernment, we packed up everything we owned and moved away from all we had known to serve the Lord in the Diocese of Evansville.
The last two years have been far from what I thought they might be like. Not better or worse, but different. Uncomfortable at times, being in a new place, meeting new people, then getting hit with all that the pandemic brought. But I take heart in the words of Emeritus Pope Benedict XVI when he said: “The ways of the Lord are not easy, but we were not created for an easy life, but for great things, for goodness…. Those who desire comforts have dialed the wrong number. Rather, he shows us the way to great things, the good, towards an authentic human life.”
My wife and I asked God what he wanted from us. We listened and said OK, Lord, we are yours and will do what you want. We trust you.
I encourage you, dear Reader, to ask God what he wants from you and what you can give to the Church, because the Church needs you. You have talents that can help grow the Kingdom of God, even if you don’t realize it right now. Open your hearts to those opportunities that do appear. Trust the Lord and say yes.
Every time I look at that Caravaggio print and see Jesus’ pointing at Matthew, I see him pointing at me. In reality, he is pointing at all of us because that’s what he wants – all of us.
It is almost impossible to write, speak or think about stewardship without the phrase “Time, talent, and treasure” coming into our minds. So connected are we to that phrase that it becomes akin to saying “hippopotamus” twenty times, wherein it loses its meaning altogether. Part of my work is to help recapture the meaning of the three Ts so that they don’t just roll aimlessly out of our mouths like the twentieth hippopotamus.
Let’s look at T1 – Time. A priest friend of mine suggested that we think of “time” as prayer. When we look at it that way, time – prayer – is a priceless gift from God that we are expected to return with increase. We receive the gift of communicating with God through our prayer, then offer it back to him with more prayer carrying not only our pleas for help, but for those others in our lives whose sufferings and struggles cause them to reach out for help.
For the past four months I have been following the story of the CEO of the Catholic Leadership Institute, Daniel Celluci. I met Daniel at a stewardship conference, but to say I had a close personal relationship with him would be, well, not the truth.
Daniel has achieved a high level of professional success in his life and now leads a great firm. Each Monday, he sends out an email entitled “Discerning Insights about Leadership.” I read them and generally get some good food for thought.
One Monday last December I received my regular email from him that had an urgent prayer request. Daniel’s seven-year-old son Peter had just been diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor. What I noticed in Daniel’s message that day was rather than wallowing in sorrow about the devastating news of his son, he turned to God for help, asking for prayer from all those who knew him and knew of him.
Since that time, Peter has undergone several surgeries, six weeks of daily radiation treatments, and is about to undergo a year’s worth of chemotherapy. Peter has shown that he is a brave little boy and he and his family face a very, very difficult road ahead.
But this isn’t a column about either Peter or about Daniel. Rather, it is about suffering, prayer, and stewardship.
When we are faced with the struggles and sufferings of someone we love, the natural reaction is to want that suffering to end. It is not uncommon for us to think “If I could take on your suffering for you, I would do it right now.” In effect, that is what happens when we pray for someone.
A number of years ago I had some serious health issues. Rather than keep it to myself, I asked everyone I knew to pray for me. I was humbled beyond belief that so many people would pray on my behalf, taking my suffering from me and offering it to God.
Stewardship so often focuses on the Treasure part of the three Ts. Treasure is essential to the work of the Church, yet it is temporal, bound to earth and time. Prayer, on the other hand, is the quintessence of stewardship in that it is a direct line to God, superseding the boundaries of our world. Prayer is a great gift from God, as though he had given us a phone with a direct line to him when we were born. Just like the other gifts he gives us, we can return this gift of prayer to him with increase by using it frequently and offering it back to him for all those who ask for our prayers, and especially for those who don’t.
Sunday is Palm Sunday, one of the two times during the year in which we hear the reading of the Passion of our lord Jesus Christ. The other, of course, being Good Friday. It is likely there will be several readers taking on various roles as they present the Passion to those gathered. The Passion, even in its grief and sorrow, is filled with hope as it leads to the Resurrection and the joy of our Easter greeting, “Jesus is risen, he is truly risen!”
I have been a reader at my parishes for many years. It is both a great blessing and enormous responsibility to proclaim Scripture to my brother and sister parishioners. Over the years I have read at Mass during every liturgical season, from Ordinary Time, Advent and Lent, to the great feasts of Easter and Christmas.
Several times I was scheduled to be a part of the reading of the Passion. We are familiar with the scenario as the presiding priest takes on the role of Jesus, a second reader is the voice of multiple characters, and another reader acts as the narrator. Finally, the voice of the crowd is supplied by the congregation.
One particular Palm Sunday I was assigned the part of the narrator. As I was giving voice to the actions of the characters in the Passion, I became increasingly agitated at the terrible things that were happening to Jesus: the Apostles falling asleep while He prayed; His betrayal by Judas; Peter’s denials; the crowning of thorns and the mocking of the crowd. As familiar as I was with the whole production, having witnessed or been part of it since my childhood, this time, as narrator, it got to me.
At one point during the Passion, Pilate poses questions to Jesus but does not get the answers he wants. He then turns to the crowd and asks “What do you want me to do with him?” We all know the answer to that question, so it was not a surprise to me when, reading my lines following Pilate’s question, I read aloud “And they answered Pilate, saying….” The crowd then responds “Crucify Him!”
I knew what they were going to say, as it was right in front of me in the script. But the response “Crucify him” shocked me. When those words came into the sanctuary, where I was standing, from all those people in the church, I remember feeling terrible fear and revulsion in their response.
When Pilate asked his question a second time and received the same response, I felt crushed, as though I was completely powerless and there was nothing that could be done to change the monstrous course of action.
As I continued reading my lines, the tale of Jesus carrying His cross, the nailing of His limbs to the cross and the cruelty of the Roman soldiers overwhelmed me and I was grievously sad. After the priest read Jesus’ last words – “Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani – My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” –I turned to my script and read “Jesus gave a loud cry and breathed his last.” It was all I could do to get those words out of my mouth as I was overcome with grief.
We all knelt down at this point. There I was, kneeling in the sanctuary of the church, tears flowing down my face over the death of Jesus.
Reading at Mass is part of my Catholic stewardship and it is usually an enjoyable experience. But stewardship isn’t always sunshine and roses. That Palm Sunday, I had to recount the cruel torture and death of my friend to hundreds of people sitting in front of me. That was unbelievably difficult.
This Palm Sunday, as you listen to the Passion of our Lord, try putting yourself in the story witnessing your friend Jesus being tortured and killed. Then, in the depths of your sorrow, remember that soon, so very soon, we will once again proclaim that He is risen, he is truly risen.
Many years ago while I was working for the Diocese of Cheyenne, I brought my camera with me to an event at a parish. The bishop saw the camera in my hands and said “Matt, take some pictures.” So I did. What started out as a request for some snapshots to use on his blog turned into a full-fledged part of my ministry, where I use my photos in much of my work, as well as a most enjoyable and challenging hobby.
Obsession might be the better word here, because that occasion tripped a creative lever inside of me that had never been tripped before. Prior to coming to work for the Church, my business required that I pour over spreadsheets and investment analysts’ reports, which were not really right-brain activities. Seeing the possibilities of expressing creativity through photography, I dove headfirst into the picture-taking pool. Since that time of the bishop’s request, I have taken tens of thousands of photos.
Most of those photos have been deleted, however, because they were awful. Out-of-focus, poorly composed, over-exposed – I believe I committed almost every photography sin.
One cannot become a better photographer by just taking more photos, as that approach just equals more junk. To become a better photographer, one must take a critical look at ones photos with the intention of learning from those mistakes. In my desire to get better, I learned that it helps to look at the masters of painting to see how they use light in their work. Since photography is all about light, I thought that was a great idea.
In 2018, the Denver Art Museum had a show featuring sketches and paintings by Rembrandt, a true master of light in painting. We lived close to Denver at the time and made the trip to see the show with some friends. I took my camera with me so I could make a record of Rembrandt’s work for my study.
I took a photo of every piece in the exhibit. I went home that night and downloaded everything to my computer, ready to make a detailed study of all that I had seen.
But I got distracted and they sat on my hard drive for 3+ years, never seeing the light of day.
Recently, two friends, independent of each other and just a day apart, brought up Rembrandt’s painting of The Prodigal Son. I was reminded of the photos I took and looked at them again in detail.
Rembrandt’s use of light brings depth to the sketches and paintings. The sketch shown nearby, Christ Crucified between the Two Thieves, uses light to emphasize Jesus and, peripherally, the two thieves, while clouding the others in shadows and darkness. It feels as though we are a part of the scene, not just viewing a flat sketch.
We are approaching the fourth week of Lent, a benchmark that may find us wondering how we fell so short of fulfilling our intentions of faithfully preparing for Easter and how we can get back on track. This is a question I ask of myself, and this sketch brings me hope that I can salvage my commitments.
Darkness is the absence of light. Rembrandt casts light from above upon the crucifixion, the cruel torture and death of the Son of God. Without the light, there is darkness and no hope. But the light, even in the darkest moments, gives us hope that this is not the end of the story, but the beginning. Thanks for reading. If you would like to see the photos of Rembrandt’s works, write to me at firstname.lastname@example.org and I will send you the link.
Lent is a time of preparation which can lead to a heightened awareness of the presence of God in our lives, a presence that can go unnoticed when we have our faces buried in our work or our phones. When we turn away from those distractions, we have a real opportunity to see God in our everyday. Sometimes those moments are moving and powerful beyond description. That’s what I call a God moment.
A God moment can be a moment, an hour, or an hour that seems like a moment. Regardless, it is a very personal, deeply spiritual, and quintessentially moving experience. Mine has stayed with me for more than 40 years.
From the beginning:
I learned to play the guitar in high school. I fell in love with the instrument and played every chance I had, often falling asleep at night with my guitar in my hands.
After graduation, I continued my schooling at the University of Wisconsin-Platteville. I attended Mass at the Newman Center – St. Augustine University Parish. The year was 1976, and the church was new and lacked a lot of church identifiers, like kneelers (there were folding chairs), stained glass, or a permanent altar. Think of a parish hall with commercial carpeting, and an altar brought in for Mass.
There was no organ, either. Music was provided by a dozen students with guitars and voices singing and playing with great spirit and enthusiasm. The first time I saw them I knew I wanted to be a part of that group, with the connection being my guitar. Following Mass, I walked up to the leader (she was a staff member) and told her I would like to join and I was in. It was as good as it gets, playing an instrument I loved in a place I loved with people whom I grew to love.
Our group made a Lenten retreat near the very cold and snowy Spring Green, Wisconsin. This was no five star resort, and our weekend stay was a BYOB weekend – Bring Your Own (sleeping) Bag. Floor space was abundant, as there were no beds. Or rooms, for that matter. Just a big, open space that accommodated a dozen university students, a music minister, and a priest.
What happened between Friday night arrival and Sunday morning Mass escapes my memory, but what happened during Mass is burned in my very being forever.
When we awoke early Sunday morning, it was so very cold that we could see our breath and nobody wanted to get out of their bag. Our priest managed to coax us all into a circle where he lit a single candle and began celebrating Mass.
We were a group of students in our late teens / early 20s who were two days without showers or enough sleep, shoulder to shoulder in this circle, the candle in the middle, praying together – “Our Father, who art in heaven ….”
All at once the entire room and everyone in it was filled with a presence so powerful as to be both beautiful beyond words and frightening beyond imagination. It was at this moment that I knew without any doubt or question that God was real, and He was sitting in that circle with us. It was literally breathtaking and brings me to tears today as I retell this story.
I remember this so vividly. It was so cold at the start of Mass because there was no central heat and nobody had built a fire in the stove, yet the presence of God’s Holy Spirit warmed the whole space and filled our souls.
Whatever words I use fall far, far short of the power, beauty, and fear that was among us that cold February morning in Spring Green, Wisconsin.
This was my God moment. I have been blessed with being able to go back to that moment many times since then and once again experience the absolute holiness of that Sunday morning long ago.
This Lent, as you prepare for the Resurrection of our Lord, pay close attention to how things around you change and you become keenly aware of God’s presence. Your God moment could be right in front of you. Have you had a God moment and want to share it? I would love to hear about it.
I would like you to meet the dogs we own, Lexie and London.
They are golden doodles and best friends to each other. They are not related, but have been together a long time. Lexie is the white dog and London the black. I call them my clergy dogs. Their tongues are hanging out because it was unbelievably hot and humid on the day I took this photo. I know that I was wilting behind the camera.
These two are great friends to us, too. They rarely leave our sides and provide us with a dose of affection whenever we need it.
They are definitely inside dogs. Some might call them spoiled, but I just call them family.
Yes, family. We have conversations with them and tell them our secrets and troubles. They listen attentively and make us believe we are the most important people in the world. They never judge us and they miss us when we are gone. I know this because they are so excited when we come home.
When they are sick we worry. Since they can’t tell us what hurts, we look at their symptoms and try to figure out what is wrong. A trip to the vet is sometimes required to get them feeling better, and often that comes with prescription meds, and bills, as well.
We feed them, provide comfortable places in the house for them to sleep, and a place for them to do their business outside. We then go outside to clean up what they leave.
We are responsible for their actions. If they bite someone, they and I will get in trouble.
But I would argue that we don’t own them at all. Rather, they have been given to us to care for during their relatively short lives. We accepted this responsibility when we brought them home and now work to give them good lives for the 10 years or so that they are with us. We love them, feed them, care for them, and spend a lot of money on them.
Why do we do this? That’s easy. Like I said a little while ago, Lexie and London are family. We would do most anything for them that we could, like we would for our children or grandchildren, or for our brothers and sisters, unhesitatingly. We would help to the limit of our resources without regard to our personal comfort or sacrifice. We would do that because we love them and they are family.
Our relationship to the Church is like that. Church is family, not a casual acquaintance. We would do anything we could, sometimes beyond our resources, to help. We don’t do this for notoriety, but because it is the right thing to do and because God wants us to.
I suggest that we get rid of volunteers in the Church. Not the people, just the term. We don’t have volunteers wipe the noses of our grandchildren or clean up dog poop in the backyard. We don’t ask how much time it will take if our husband or wife is sick and needs us because we have a meeting at 7:00. We won’t shy away from taking a brother to a doctor’s appointment. We do this because they are family.
When we are asked to help at the parish, we do so because they are family. There is no “us” and “them.” It’s “we.”
God graces us with the people and pets in our lives. He expects us to care for them. God graces us with His Church. He expects us to take care of it.
There aren’t volunteers in a family; there is just family. As Catholic stewards, we understand that and embrace it.
We don’t own Lexie and London, but we are entrusted with their care. We don’t own the Church, either. Rather, it is the Church of Jesus Christ, who is still its head. We are, however, given the monumental task of caring for it. Which we do because, well, we’re all family.
As always, thanks for reading. I would love to hear from you. Write to me at email@example.com.
If you’ll recall from our last column, we are still in the Christmas season. In fact, we continue celebrating Christmas until January 10, the Baptism of the Lord. With that in mind, let me share with you another Christmas thought.
I am no better than anyone else at shutting out the pre-Christmas, consumer-driven noise that occurs each year leading up to December 25. We are inundated with it, and with as much time as we spend on our computers and phones, and the incessant ads with which we are pummeled, it is nearly impossible to avoid it all. I enjoy the music, as it evokes memories of Christmas as a child in a home filled with music. I have been known to shed a tear or two when I watch “White Christmas” and see all those soldiers honoring their former commander as Bing Crosby sings about following the old man wherever he wants to go.
Of all that music and those movies, my favorite one of all is A Charlie Brown Christmas. I remember watching this short film when it aired for the first time in 1965. I was in the second grade at St. Johns school in South Milwaukee, Wisconsin at the time. My friend Jon Nawrocki and I were Peanut’s fans, ordering all the Charlie Brown books from the Arrow Book Club, then sharing them with each other and laughing at all their adventures. When we found out Charlie Brown would be on TV, we were ecstatic.
Like so many others, I have watched A Charlie Brown Christmas many times since that original broadcast. I purchased a CD of the soundtrack some time ago and have listened to The Vince Guaraldi Trio play those unforgettable songs over and over.
The animation in the film seems absolutely archaic today. No computer generated imagery or three dimensional characters. The dialog is not terribly complex, and the story moves along with the actions and words of a group of children.
The climax of the cartoon is when Charlie Brown laments that nobody can tell him the real meaning of Christmas. Linus pipes up and offers the only explanation there is, quoting from the Gospel of St. Luke.
The words of Luke are powerful, and each time we hear them our hearts soar! “And suddenly there was a multitude of the heavenly host with the angel, praising God and saying: “Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace to those on whom His favor rests.” (Lk 2: 13-14)
While those words are powerful, what makes them that way in the midst of a cartoon about a small group of children navigating the complexities of commercialism in opposition to the Gospel?
That’s right. Silence. Linus responds to Charlie Brown’s plea for help and walks to the center of the stage. No music or dialog, just Linus saying “Lights, please” to focus the attention on what he is about to say. He tells us the true meaning of Christmas using the words of St. Luke, then silence again as he walks back to Charlie Brown and tells him “That’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.
It’s the silence that frames that wonderful story that makes it so powerful. It sets it off, telling the viewer that what he is about to hear is very, very important. It seems to me that that is an important lesson for all of us.
This time of year, much of the world has moved on from Christmas, and the noise is ramping up again. Let’s take our cues from Linus, framing the Gospel – the most important thing – with silence.
For the rest of this blessed season, and for the year ahead, may you know Him more fully through the love and grace he so richly bestows on us all.
This is our second autumn in Indiana, and it’s really beautiful.
I always thought Wyoming autumns were glorious, and I still do. There is something very special about an Indian summer day catching the gold of the aspen leaves quaking in the breeze. The cool nights and warm days create a most enjoyable contrast.
Indiana autumn is quite different. The vast hardwood forests and the seas of corn and bean covered farmland create a cacophony of colors and textures that leave one’s senses reeling in their beauty.
God’s hand is evident in the environment. To declare it simply an accident of nature, as some do, is to simply ignore the obvious. Fall offers hope, a drawing on our emotional savings account taken from the surplus of the summer. The magnificent colors that surround us steel and fill our souls for the winter, when the cold and dark want to rob us of our joy.