

I have a confession to make: the Stations of the Cross used to creep me out. Only in the past year have I begun to understand their beauty and significance. And that is thanks to the Living Stations of the Cross presented by the teens of the St. Rose of Lima high school youth group in Freehold, New Jersey.
When I was a child, I didn’t want any part of Palm Sunday or Holy Week, or especially Stations of the Cross. That is because to me they were all about this wonderful person, the Son of God, who was murdered most gruesomely. In contrast, I loved Christmas. My dad sang at Christmas Masses and our family of six often would attend Midnight Masses. What a treat to stay up so late and celebrate Christmas, a holiday I understood was about love, about a baby born in inauspicious and unusual circumstances who turns out to be the Savior of the World. It made me feel warm inside.
As for Holy Week, our parents did not take us to Holy Thursday or Good Friday masses. Until I was a mom myself, I never attended Stations of the Cross. And so they remained to me scary images I avoided looking at on the side walls of Catholic churches.
Throughout my life, the lead-up to Easter was this icky thing, hidden from my view and understanding. And the one Easter Mass I remember attending as a child (though our parents took us every Easter) was when I was eight or so. We were late to Mass and could not find a parking spot at our parish. So my dad drove us over to a church in a neighboring town. I remember the priest intoning during his homily, “You are one Easter closer to your death.” I imagine now that the priest must have said lots of other things—about the Resurrection and the possibility of our own salvation—but that was all I heard. His words terrified me for years.
Because of my spiritual and emotional immaturity, not for nearly four more decades could I begin to fully confront Christ’s suffering, and through that, mature in my faith. Last Lent, a friend and fellow parishioner, Dan Finaldi, invited the Saint Rose of Lima high school youth group in Freehold, one county over, to present Living Stations of the Cross at our parish. Dan is a high school art teacher in Freehold and learned about the project from some of his students.
I didn’t even want to go. But as part of their CCD requirements, our sons had to attend a Stations of the Cross during Lent. This felt like a palatable way to do it. After all, if a bunch of Jersey teens could spend days living the Stations in rehearsal, surely this middle-aged woman would be able to emotionally handle watching a presentation of the Stations. And so I went.
I didn’t even know what “Living Stations” meant. Were the teens going to walk around the church, stop at each station, and reenact it by flashlight? No. Teen actors used the front of our church to create tableaux, station by station. From the ambo, other teens interspersed descriptions of each scene with prayerful meditations on how that event on the road to Calvary related to their own faith journey. From the choir loft, teen musicians, including an electric guitarist and a drummer, sang contemporary hymns and popular tunes that related directly to the meditations.
This approach was a big help to me. At long last, I understood that we cannot fully embrace the message of Christianity unless we embrace Christ’s suffering for us. Stations, as our 10-year-old put it, “is about the road to His death, which, in the end, saves us all.” Last night he came with me and my friend Andy to Living Stations. This time, I meditated on the depth of suffering Christ’s mother endured, and about the kindness of strangers Christ encountered on his journey home. “We cannot take your place,” the teens read. “But help us find our place in the world.”
At the Sixth Station, in which Veronica wipes the face of Jesus, a lone teen sang Jewel’s “Hands.” I thank God for the high school youth group at Saint Rose of Lima for helping me grow up.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b4xe3o_pmhQI know, Welsh poet Dylan Thomas (1914–1953) was an agnostic, and this poem hardly offers a Christian world view. It takes shots at the Inquisition (“twisting on racks”) and offers a vision of the afterlife that is antic, caustic, not Catholic. Still, and although he died a drunken mess when I was but two, I have always loved Thomas’s poetry, ever since Mr. Griswold taught us “Fern Hill” in eighth grade.
Thomas More was a great believer in meditating on the Four Last Things: death, judgment, hell, and heaven. Here’s an opportunity. Whether it is ironic or positive, or both, “And Death Shall Have No Dominion” is a fitting poem for this time of year, don’t you think? In such beauty God reveals Himself.
And Death Shall Have No Dominion
And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan’t crack;
And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.
Now that you’ve had a chance to read it to yourself, listen to Dylan Thomas reading it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nsVvxWeOAsc
It’s St. Patrick’s Day, so we’d best pick an Irish poet for this regular feature—or else I’ll be in Dutch with my Irish wife, the erstwhile Katie McNiff. Yeats or Wilde? That was my question. Oscar Wilde, for all his flamboyance, had a deeply spiritual side. (Read his “De Profundis” some day when you feel that God is far away.) But with one daughter of mine being received into the Catholic Church at Easter and the other embarked on an exciting new career path, I have to go with William Butler Yeats (left) and his beautiful prayer for his own daughter. St. Joseph would have understood:
Once more the storm is howling, and half hid
Under this cradle-hood and coverlid
My child sleeps on. There is no obstacle
But Gregory’s wood and one bare hill
Whereby the haystack- and roof-levelling wind,
Bred on the Atlantic, can be stayed;
And for an hour I have walked and prayed
Because of the great gloom that is in my mind.
I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour
And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower,
And under the arches of the bridge, and scream
In the elms above the flooded stream;
Imagining in excited reverie
That the future years had come,
Dancing to a frenzied drum,
Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.
May she be granted beauty and yet not
Beauty to make a stranger’s eye distraught,
Or hers before a looking-glass, for such,
Being made beautiful overmuch,
Consider beauty a sufficient end,
Lose natural kindness and maybe
The heart-revealing intimacy
That chooses right, and never find a friend.
Helen being chosen found life flat and dull
And later had much trouble from a fool,
While that great Queen, that rose out of the spray,
Being fatherless could have her way
Yet chose a bandy-leggd smith for man.
It’s certain that fine women eat
A crazy salad with their meat
Whereby the Horn of Plenty is undone.
In courtesy I’d have her chiefly learned;
Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned
By those that are not entirely beautiful;
Yet many, that have played the fool
For beauty’s very self, has charm made wise,
And many a poor man that has roved,
Loved and thought himself beloved,
From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.
May she become a flourishing hidden tree
That all her thoughts may like the linnet be,
And have no business but dispensing round
Their magnanimities of sound,
Nor but in merriment begin a chase,
Nor but in merriment a quarrel.
O may she live like some green laurel
Rooted in one dear perpetual place.
My mind, because the minds that I have loved,
The sort of beauty that I have approved,
Prosper but little, has dried up of late,
Yet knows that to be choked with hate
May well be of all evil chances chief.
If there’s no hatred in a mind
Assault and battery of the wind
Can never tear the linnet from the leaf.
An intellectual hatred is the worst,
So let her think opinions are accursed.
Have I not seen the loveliest woman born
Out of the mouth of Plenty’s horn,
Because of her opinionated mind
Barter that horn and every good
By quiet natures understood
For an old bellows full of angry wind?
Considering that, all hatred driven hence,
The soul recovers radical innocence
And learns at last that it is self-delighting,
Self-appeasing, self-affrighting,
And that its own sweet will is Heaven’s will;
She can, though every face should scowl
And every windy quarter howl
Or every bellows burst, be happy still.
And may her bridegroom bring her to a house
Where all’s accustomed, ceremonious;
For arrogance and hatred are the wares
Peddled in the thoroughfares.
How but in custom and in ceremony
Are innocence and beauty born?
Ceremony’s a name for the rich horn,
And custom for the spreading laurel tree.
Anna Deveare Smith is an extraordinary actress, teacher, woman. Katie and I had an opportunity to appreciate that last evening at a private command performance put on by a client of mine. I do not know whether the long-time performer on West Wing is a Catholic. But she taught me about being a Catholic, and challenged me to be a better one.
Trained as an actress, Smith is a former winner of a MacArthur “Genius” Grant and is now a professor at NYU. She has created a new form of one-woman show, in which she presents a broad range of American characters as she has encountered them in one-on-one interviews. In the YouTube clip below, you can appreciate her acting talent. But what you might not realize is that each small performance piece is taken verbatim from an interview she conducted.
This makes her performance an extraodinary act of incarnating another person—often someone of another culture, sometimes a person of the opposite gender (she plays Studs Terkel in the first piece). She incarnates these characters with complete acceptance and boundless compassion. She never makes fun of her characters; she embodies them completely.
I have been thinking about her performance since it ended last night. I have been wondering why I have been thinking about her performance. And this is the conclusion I have come to.
Anna Deveare Smith demonstrates how it is possible to see beauty, truth, and goodness in anyone. And she has made this seeing and telling her life’s work. Seeing another person this way, I imagine, I am about as close to seeing Christ in that person as I would be face to face with Jesus. Watch, listen, ponder the meaning of this remarkable woman’s work.
Language warning: If you are going to watch this with a young person, turn it off after the piece about the Korean woman. Because the final character, a rodeo rider, uses the F-word. To my mind, even this “lapse of taste” (if that is really what it is) is an act of total acceptance of a character encountered.
We’re moving into “mud time” here in New England, and I can’t think of a better first selection than Robert Frost’s great poem about a man splitting wood during the spring thaw. A poet could work a whole lifetime and not write a better final stanza.
What’s Catholic about this poem? It combines physicality with spirituality. This is life—the raw effort of wielding the ax while one’s heart reaches for Heaven—“vocation” in harmony with “avocation.” It’s the same dynamic found in Frost’s other beautiful up-high/down-low poem, “Birches.” Which I’m sure I’ll get to one of these Wednesdays.
One good thing about “Two Tramps” and most of Frost—I don’t feel like an idiot reading it but not understanding it. The meaning and beauty are all right there, in the daily specifics of New England life.
TWO TRAMPS IN MUD TIME
Out of the mud two strangers came
And caught me splitting wood in the yard,
And one of them put me off my aim
By hailing cheerily “Hit them hard!”
I knew pretty well why he had dropped behind
And let the other go on a way.
I knew pretty well what he had in mind:
He wanted to take my job for pay.
Good blocks of oak it was I split,
As large around as the chopping block;
And every piece I squarely hit
Fell splinterless as a cloven rock.
The blows that a life of self-control
Spares to strike for the common good,
That day, giving a loose my soul,
I spent on the unimportant wood.
The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You’re one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you’re two months back in the middle of March.
A bluebird comes tenderly up to alight
And turns to the wind to unruffle a plume,
His song so pitched as not to excite
A single flower as yet to bloom.
It is snowing a flake; and he half knew
Winter was only playing possum.
Except in color he isn’t blue,
But he wouldn’t advise a thing to blossom.
The water for which we may have to look
In summertime with a witching wand,
In every wheelrut’s now a brook,
In every print of a hoof a pond.
Be glad of water, but don’t forget
The lurking frost in the earth beneath
That will steal forth after the sun is set
And show on the water its crystal teeth.
The time when most I loved my task
The two must make me love it more
By coming with what they came to ask.
You’d think I never had felt before
The weight of an ax-head poised aloft,
The grip of earth on outspread feet,
The life of muscles rocking soft
And smooth and moist in vernal heat.
Out of the wood two hulking tramps
(From sleeping God knows where last night,
But not long since in the lumber camps).
They thought all chopping was theirs of right.
Men of the woods and lumberjacks,
The judged me by their appropriate tool.
Except as a fellow handled an ax
They had no way of knowing a fool.
Nothing on either side was said.
They knew they had but to stay their stay
And all their logic would fill my head:
As that I had no right to play
With what was another man’s work for gain.
My right might be love but theirs was need.
And where the two exist in twain
Theirs was the better right–agreed.
But yield who will to their separation,
My object in living is to unite
My avocation and my vocation
As my two eyes make one in sight.
Only where love and need are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done
For Heaven and the future’s sakes.
Guest post by Allison
A few weeks ago, my friend Andy introduced me to Guido D’Arezzo, the Benedictine monk who invented modern musical notation by creating the four-line staff.Then Andy, who founded our parish’s Chant Club and has a master’s degree in medieval literature from the University of Notre Dame, read my post about Guido, including my dismissive remarks on the theologically suspect, “folksy religious songs of my Catholic childhood.” And Andy had another lesson for me.
He and his wife are nearly two decades younger than Greg and I. We are products of the well-meaning and sometimes misguided reforms of Vatican II and I call their generation the “JP2 babies”—unafraid of orthodoxy, unabashed in their faith.
Andy told me he believed folk music can have a place in Catholic worship—if its lyrics reflect orthodoxy. He told me about a folk musician he and his wife had known when they were students at Notre Dame: Danielle Skorich, whose professional name was Danielle Rose.
Last month he placed a Danielle Rose’s CD, called “Mysteries,” on top of our TV in the family room. There it sat, unplayed until Sunday night.
Sunday afternoon at Chant Club, Andy yet again mentioned the two-album CD, which is a series of musical reflections on each of the rosary mysteries. He encouraged me to at least listen to the song on the Transfiguration, given that it was Transfiguration Sunday.
I spent late Transfiguration Sunday evening listening to Danielle Rose’s album on my laptop. In her liner notes, Danielle Rose says she was inspired to produce the album in response to Pope John Paul II’s October 2002 letter introducing the Luminous Mysteries to the rosary. The album, in a wide range of musical styles, reflects on all 20 mysteries of the rosary.
As someone who spent endless hours as a teen alone in my bedroom listening to Joni Mitchell and Joan Baez records, I was transfixed—yes, that is the word—by the soulful, soaring, dare I say sensuous, tunes of Danielle Rose. Her music incorporates a range of styles, including folk, chant, gospel, rock and bluegrass. She tells the story of each mystery from the perspective of Biblical characters.
In “Listen to Him,” she relates the Transfiguration, the fourth Luminous Mystery, from Peter’s perspective: I hear the voice of every generation listen to Him. Time stands still when I behold your Transfiguration.
A cradle Catholic, Danielle Rose grew up in Duluth, Minnesota. Her father is an eye surgeon who volunteered his talents in India for 25 years. Both parents encouraged her to a life of service. Danielle Rose’s faith deepened in college, when she began attending daily mass and reflecting on the Real Presence. She graduated from Notre Dame in 2002 with degrees in both music and theology. Her first album, “Defining Beauty,” was released by World Library Publications before she graduated.
Danielle Rose went on to travel the world as what she called a “music missionary,” hoping to bring her musical gifts to a spiritually impoverished world. She was the 2005 United Catholic Music and Video Association (UCMVA) Unity Award Winner for Female Vocalist of the Year.
When Andy loaned me the CD of her work, he mentioned that Danielle Rose’s website and her MySpace page are out of date and he wasn’t sure if she was writing and performing anymore.
“Maybe she got married,” I responded. In fact, she did.
In August 2007, Danielle Rose Skorich entered a Charismatic and Franciscan community near Amarillo, Texas, called the Disciples of the Lord Jesus Christ. In August of the next year, she was accepted as a novice and received the religious name Sister Rose Therese.
“He revealed the desire of His heart for my life, and thus transformed my heart from the one being pursued by Christ, to the one in pursuit of Christ. ‘I want to be your spouse,’” Sister Rose Therese, DLJC, wrote.
Ten days before Sister Rose Therese entered the convent, she created her final mainstream album called “Pursue Me” about her discernment journey. All royalties from the sales go to promoting vocations to both the priesthood and religious life.
In a 2007 concert in Duluth, before taking her vows, Danielle Rose said she would not say farewell to her loved ones even though—other than her family—she could no longer call or email them. “See you in the Eucharist,” she sang.
I’m still quite fond of Guido. But now I’m also a Catholic thanks to Sister Rose Therese.
I’ve never really had trouble praying. When I was growing up, my mother taught me to pray. And prayer was never confined in my mind to any specific time or place. It still isn’t now. Prior to my conversion, I had heard some Catholic friends speak about the difficulty of praying. I always thought, what is so difficult about it? Just do it.
I’m still not sure what kind of problems they were having with prayer. I always thought it was pretty simple to just ask for what you need. Or to give thanks for what you have been given. I’ll be honest with you and say that I’m still warming up to the Rosary. We pray the Rosary as a family at least one night a week now. Usually on Tuesdays. It’s good because with five of us, we each lead a decade of the prayer. Everyone is a leader.
After my conversion, I was perusing the religious book section of our public library and I came across this title in the photograph above. Sister Wendy Beckett wrote a book on prayer? Neat! My wife and I love Sister Wendy’s PBS specials on art. So I picked up this little tome and brought it home. I think it was very helpful. It is the first book that explained to me the idea that prayer can even be done silently. I don’t mean praying silently, but listening silently. Hard to do in a house full of kids, but it is possible after they are in bed.
It is a short and very readable book and very straightforward. It has three sections and is only 144 pages in length. Heck, the first 31 pages are an autobiographical introduction by the writer and producer of her PBS art documentaries. So it’s really only 113 pages. It’s good that it is short and simple because Sister Wendy prefers that you actually pray rather than just read about praying. I’m with her on this idea to. The K.I.S.S. method of prayer, you know, Keep It Simple, Silly!
Let me give you a brief taste from the first chapter,
The simplicity of prayer, its sheer, terrifying uncomplicatedness seems to be the last thing most of us either know, or want to know. It is not difficult to intellectualize on prayer. Like love, beauty, and motherhood, it quickly sets our eloquence aflow. It is not difficult, but it is perfectly futile. In fact, those glowing pages on prayer are worse than futile; they can be positively harmful.
Writing about prayer, reading about prayer, talking about prayer, thinking about prayer, longing for prayer and wrapping myself more and more in these great cloudy sublimities can make me feel so aware of the spiritual—anything rather than actually praying. What am I doing but erecting a screen behind which I can safely maintain my self-esteem and hide away from God?
Striking any chords here? Sister Wendy doesn’t pull any punches, does she?
Ask yourself: what do I really want when I pray? Do you want to be possessed by God? Or to put the same question more honestly, do you want to want it? Then you have it. The one point Jesus stressed and repeated and brought up again is, “Whatever you ask the Father, He will grant it to you.” His insistence on faith and perseverance are surely other ways of saying the same thing: you must really want it, it must engross you.
You see what I mean? Sister Wendy lays it all on the line right there in the first couple of paragraphs of chapter one! To finish out this line of reasoning she writes,
Wants that are passing, faint emotional desires that you do not press with burning conviction, these are things that you do not ask “in Jesus’ name;” how could you? But what you really want, “with all your heart, mind, soul and strength,” that Jesus pledges himself to see that you are granted. He is not talking only, probably not even primarily, of prayer of petition, but of prayer. When you set yourself down to pray, what do you want? If you want God to take possession of you, than you are praying. That is all prayer is.
The astonishing thing about prayer is our inability to accept that if we have need of it, as we do, then because of God’s goodness, it cannot be something that is difficult. Accept that God is good and that your relationship with Him is prayer, and you must conclude that prayer is an act of the utmost simplicity.
And that is why I say thank you to Sister Wendy. There is much more practical advice in this charming, little book, and that is a good thing too. Because Sister Wendy and I want you to read it quickly and then start praying, whenever you can and wherever you happen to be.