By John Rieping | All rights reserved | Published 17 August 2013 in The Madera Tribune Did you hear about the student whose mother had bought him a really cheap dictionary app for his smartphone? He couldn't find the words to thank her. It gets worse. While defending her purchase, she declared that a good education was a man's best friend. The family dog bit her. As for myself, the other night I was in the mood for heavy reading, so I read the telephone book. But I couldn't make sense of the plot. There were too many characters. So I picked up "Butler's Lives of the Saints" and skimmed some life stories. Disappointingly, all the biographies were the same: the main character always died. But let us speak of literacy more sublime. There is an ancient practice of prayer known as "lectio divina," a phrase that means "reading God" or "divine reading." It traditionally involves reading the Bible slowly, with imagination and thought. We Christians tend to read the Bible like we drive on the freeway, eager for our destination. But lectio divina requires reading like a car trapped in rush hour traffic -- stop and go. A 12th century Carthusian monk, Guigo, wrote of it: “Reading puts, as it were, whole food into your mouth; meditation chews it and breaks it down; prayer finds its savor; contemplation is the sweetness that so delights and strengthens” ("Scala Paradisi"). How to do it Begin by seeking out silence, letting go of distractions, and focusing on God. A prayer may help. Next, read a sentence or phrase, and then reflect upon it. Put yourself in the circumstance mentioned, ponder what it must have meant to those present, or listen to its echoes in your own life. In whatever way you choose, "Go to your bosom: knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know," as William Shakespeare once wrote. Then speak to God about it or just spend time with God. After an uncomfortable pause, continue on. Lectio divina will test one's patience at first if done properly. But the temporary breaks are necessary, like in any conversation, to make space for a two-way exchange. Lectio divina isn't "Bible study." It is meant to be an encounter. The goal isn't to master knowledge. It is to embrace God. The Cistercian monk Charles Cummings sums it up better than I: "Sacred reading allows the word of God to touch and awaken my heart. 'Indeed,' says the Letter to the Hebrews, 'God's word is living and effective, sharper than any two-edged sword... It judges the reflections and thoughts of the heart' (Heb. 4:12). When I spend time in sacred reading I invite God's word to penetrate my heart and to evoke from that deepest center of my being a response of surrender, wonder, praise, regret, petition, love. In the words I read, God speaks to me; in my prayerful pauses I respond to God, verbally or wordlessly." The final step of lectio divina is living out God's Word. In his 2010 exhortation "Verbum Domini" ("Word of God"), Pope Benedict XVI noted: "We do well also to remember that the process of lectio divina is not concluded until it arrives at action (actio), which moves the believer to make his or her life a gift for others in charity." Lectio divina remains a daily prayer for many monks and nuns as it more or less was for their earliest predecessors, the "desert fathers" and "mothers," who fled Roman decadence by seeking the desolation of the deserts of Egypt in the 4th century. These days other Christians of all kinds likewise find light in "reading God." By grace, may we be able to sincerely say: "Truly I have set my soul in silence and peace. As a child has rest in its mother's arms, even so my soul" (Tehilim/Psalm 131:2-3).
0 Comments
By John Rieping | All rights reserved | Published 20 July 2013 in The Madera Tribune A winged child flees an attack by lions in an apparently controversial metal sculpture at the Iron Bird Lofts in Fresno, California. I hunted as well on May 27th, but the beauty I wished to catch I had no appetite to harm, though I was no less hungry for it. Photograph by John Rieping. All rights reserved. I had parked illegally in Downtown Fresno on Memorial Day, but I hoped a 10-minute stop to hunt urban beauty with my camera would be safe enough. I thought I was just stopping a moment while on my way to the highway, but I would spend my entire afternoon on that spontaneous safari. I captured the light of many moments outside the Legion of Valor Museum before turning back to my tiny Smart car. But an older bearded man called after me until he had my attention. He left behind his shelter, his belongings, and companion to approach. "I see people stop and take pictures of that" -- he pointed at the 109-foot Old Fresno Water Tower -- "all the time. I've never been able to figure it out. Why do they do that?" he asked, more or less. I looked up at the brown-capped tower of white before me with its graceful geometry and decor. A Chicago architect designed the American Romanesque brick tower in 1891, and it had served the city unceasingly until 1963. "Because it is old," I replied in part. "It is one of the oldest buildings here. It is a landmark here." His curiosity satisfied, we parted ways. Down the road, I spotted a proper parking lot and decided to explore what other sights, old and new, Downtown Fresno would present. I began with the oft-forgotten artistry of Fulton Mall, a historic pedestrian-only area covering six blocks of Fulton Street. Dedicated in 1964 as an urban renewal project, Fulton Mall has returned to its depressed roots -- a victim of the ever-so-common downtown flight and blight. Older buildings have more costly upkeep, society has grown less communal, and shoppers increasingly wanted to minimize outdoor walking. So gradually mainstream consumers and big retailers went elsewhere. Minority and niche businesses were lured in by affordable rent, government offices dominated, and the lovely mall grew ever more marginalized. I remember visiting Fulton Mall as a child. Or rather, I recall the journey. My grandmother, Carmen Lozano Najar, took me on the public transit system, and I had never been on a bus before. I felt excitement and mystery at the sight of the promenade between shops full of strangers. Others have different associations. One woman I spoke with associates the mall with feelings of being on the fringes of society, insecure and disrespected. Though she agreed it had pleasing art and ornamentation, it repulses her to this day because of the dark emotional investment it holds for her. I wandered far beyond the mall along Fulton Street, and to other streets beside. Most striking, perhaps, was the apparently controversial metal sculptures at the Iron Bird Lofts, which show winged humans in distress. In one, a lion devours a cherub while a feline partner leaps after another. In several, cherubs try to escape winged men -- or are being rescued by them. They're artistic, clever, and impressive, yet disturbing if examined closely. I would hesitate to condemn or commend them, but I wonder what stories lie behind their making. The aforementioned lofts themselves were appealing and well designed, so much so they almost seemed out of place. I posted photographs of them online and one person asked where I had taken them. He was skeptical it was Fresno. It seems that we respond to places and sights as much due to our hearts as to appearances. The same can be said of how we interpret much else I suppose. We judge the outlines of life with a crooked eye. Is there any way to see reality as it is? I believe we can try, and by that effort draw close enough to it to grab hold of truth. It is not so much that we can possess truth. It is bigger than we are and refuses to fit into our pockets or purses. But we can allow ourselves to better conform to truth, to be changed by truth, and so be possessed by truth.
By John Rieping | All rights reserved | Published 13 July 2013 in The Madera Tribune
"Grant misery to me, my Lord and my God," my mother prayed repeatedly Thursday morning. She meant "mercy." But her dark malapropism didn't alarm me. She has moderate Alzheimer's disease, and her reasoning and memory suffers from its creeping blight. She has better and worse days. I remember one incident when I, my dad, and other family members took her to her favorite eatery, Lola and Rico's Restaurant at 12889 Highway 145, a few months ago. She spotted her youngest grandson, Zachary. Mistaking him for myself as a child, she called out "Johnny" over and over until -- prompted by my brother -- Zachary came. "How are you feeling, Johnny?" she asked. How fitting that her question would be that. Though I can seem stoic, I have always been an emotional person and in younger years confided in her often. Now I felt a disorienting but happy sense of deja vu as if I were glimpsing my own past from afar in a sort of out-of-body experience. I imagine that every mother still sees the child in her grown offspring. But my mom sees me best in other children now -- yet loves me all the same. She generally has a more difficult time when the sun has set, so the longer days of summer are kinder to her. My father, siblings, and sisters-in-law know this best, as they help far more than I in the evenings. Any who desire marriage should see such examples. My father has grown closer to God, I think, along this spousal journey of heroic love. Without God, family, others, and the refuge of the farm upon which my parents live, I don't know how he would cope. The Jewish prophet Yirmiyahu of 6th century BC once wrote, "O LORD, I know that the way of a man is not his; neither is it in a man who walks to direct his steps." (Jeremiah 10:23) Years ago, I jotted that Scripture down along with others. It was a reminder to myself to surrender to God's wishes. Looking it up, I'm not surprised I didn't record the next verse: "Correct me, O LORD, but yet with moderation and not in fury, lest you bring me to nothing." (10:24) In this 21st century AD, how often do we pray to be chastised? Well, technically, my mother prayed for "misery." As she spoke them, her words reminded me of the Latin word "misericordia," which means "mercy" and has the roots of "misereri" ("to pity") and "cor" ("heart"). Yet the Latin word "miseria" means "poverty." Romance languages, such as Spanish, continue to use "miseria" and "misericordia" thusly. Our words reflect our thoughts, so why have so many considered mercy and poverty to be neighbors? Pondering this I recall the story of the widow's mite. While Jesus and his followers were at the Temple of Jerusalem, they did what many of us still do in public places -- people watching. They saw many wealthy persons throw large donations of money into its treasury. The bags of coins must have produced a satisfying crunch, and if they were loose you can just imagine the clatter. Then a widow came and threw in two "mites" -- to be exact, two "lepta." The Greek word "lepton" means "small" and described the tiniest coin in the Roman province of Judea. Like U.S. pennies used to be, lepta were made of copper and weren't worth much. Jesus commented: "Amen, I say to you, this poor widow has cast in more than all they who have cast into the treasury. For all they did cast in (was) of their abundance, but she -- in her want -- cast in all she had, even her whole living." (Mark 12:43-44) His words turn my thoughts upside down. If mercy and poverty are linked, I had thought, surely it would be because we should pity the poor. But that is not what we see here. Instead, it is the poor woman who gave of herself beyond the point of comfort and security and is praised for generosity. Those of us who are Christian claim God showed us the greatest mercy in his suffering, death, and resurrection. Does this not suggest that being merciful may, even should, be uncomfortable? Nobel Peace Prize winner Mother Teresa of Calcutta, India, once said: "God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son. Jesus said, 'As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you.' The Father's love, the Son's love, and our love is but a giving until it hurts." By John Rieping | All rights reserved | Published 29 June 2013 in The Madera Tribune This past week has taught me two important lessons. First, blending a can of sweet corn into a fruit smoothie one is making may not be as clever an idea as it seems. Secondly, it is possible to salvage such a smoothie by heavily diluting it with milk and bananas. I suppose such hard-won insights may seem laughable to many, but I am a reluctant bachelor with primitive but creative cooking skill. Trial and error is my harsh mistress. If further illustration is needed, know that the first time I made chorizo I didn't realize I was expected to remove the plastic casing before eating it -- not even after I ate it. It was only after the second time I cooked the spicy Mexican pork sausage that I accidentally discovered how much better it tasted sans plastic. One might say I am an impressive cook, in a sense. My extended family surely realizes this indirectly. Every time I sup with parents or siblings I probably resemble an unusually unrestrained Muslim at nightfall during the fasting month of Ramadan or someone celebrating the end of a hunger strike. Thankfully my kin tolerate the hearty appetite of this easily satisfied "connoisseur" of pleasantly edible foods. May God be praised for the undeserved gift of a loving family. Priest transfers planned My spiritual family is undergoing changes now and in the future. Native Maderan John Shearer, a member of the Oblates of Saint Joseph (OSJ), graduated from St. John's (Catholic) Seminary in May and was ordained a priest at St. Joachim Church on Friday evening. He will be celebrating his first Masses as a priest this weekend in Madera, California. He will not long remain in his hometown however. I had the providential opportunity to speak with visiting priest Rev. John Warburton, OSJ, on Thursday afternoon, and he was kind enough to fill me in on other developments for his congregation of priests and brothers and their ministry. These stem from a major change for the Oblates of Saint Joseph this spring. On March 14, the congregation's Our Lady of Sorrows province in Pennsylvania and Saint Joseph Guardian of the Redeemer province in California became unified as one Holy Spouses USA province. Due to personnel shortages in both provinces, the challenge faced by new leadership was to "consolidate for the sake of renewal and growth," Warburton said. "Its our policy to move personnel regularly, approximately every six years... shaped by circumstance," he explained. But "this was the time to make a major shuffle." Consequently, local pastor Rev. Carlos Esquivel of Madera and the newly minted Rev. Shearer will be assigned to Pittston, Pa. Warburton, a former OSJ provincial and previously associate pastor in Madera in the 1980s, will return as pastor. Joining him will be Rev. Shaji Athipozhi. Rev. Gustavo Lopez of Hollywood will remain stationed in Madera. Rev. Sergio Perez will be reassigned from Madera to Mount Saint Joseph in Loomis, near Sacramento. Perez will direct the Marello Youth Center and serve as vocational director for the West. Shearer will minister as vocational director for the East. In Madera, these changes will begin August 18 with priestly transfers in and out. In the autumn, Rev. James Catalano, a former pastor of St. Joachim Church, will return to his former parish as a semi-retired priest. Catalano celebrated his 50th anniversary as a priest and 60th as an OSJ member on March 19. The 'new' pastor For those unfamiliar with Warburton, the incoming pastor of St. Joachim Church is a familiar face for many local Catholics middle-aged and older. As a precocious child, I published an interview with him in September 1984, not long after his first arrival in Madera, in my monthly typewritten and mimeographed three to four page "newspaper" -- the Kid's Chronicle. Below are excerpts. Q: What's your full name? A: My full name is John Collister Warburton. John means "Yahweh is gracious" or "God's gift." Collister is my maternal grandfather's last name... Warburton is my paternal grandfather's last name. Both Warburton and Collister are very English names. Q: What were your first impressions upon arriving? A: I can describe my first impressions of Madera in two words -- friendly and welcoming. Q: Where were you schooled to be a priest? A: I went to Santa Clara University for two years and received a Bachelor of Arts degree in philosophy. I majored in theology for four years at the Dominican School of Philosophy and Theology in Berkeley. Q: Is it hard work to be a priest? A: Only when I forget that the Lord is with me. By John Rieping | All rights reserved | Published 18 May 2013 in The Madera Tribune
I've been driving more than usual this past week. Paradoxically I've done so because I'm not good at it and many insist only practice can improve my skill. A week ago I tackled my longest solo trek ever -- past Duarte, Los Angeles and Pomona (California). My one-day round trip went far better than I or others expected, especially on the L.A. freeway. I attribute that to the helpfulness of my GPS device, which navigated on my behalf. Instead of deciphering a map as I drove, I could focus on steering my sub-compact car safely in the congested stop-and-go traffic. A guide is such a precious gift when journeying on unknown paths. Perhaps tired out by my wanderings, I slept in a little several times this week. As weekday Mass is only available locally at 7 and 8 a.m., my sleepiness spurred me to attend later Masses in nearby Fresno instead. Afterwards I visited parts of Fresno to see what glimpses of the past remained. With family history and a stranger's advice to lead me, I stumbled upon the Fresno Betsuin Buddhist Temple, which is only a block away from where my grandfather operated a Chinatown grocery store in the 1940s. Barbershops, a classic shoe store, restaurants and other businesses remain, but the lively personality the area displayed has diminished with age I suspect. I walked on Trinity Street where my grandfather tried again with another little store and where St. Alphonsus (of Liguori) Church still rises high, flanked by equally tall palm trees as they all face historic Kearney Boulevard, which itself is lined with similar trees for 20 miles. Decades ago, three convents graced that street and a Catholic school thrived a block away. Now it is a charter school, albeit with statues of saints still looking down from one outside wall. The nuns are long gone. Few Catholics remain in the formerly Italian, then Mexican and now African-American neighborhood. After a noon Mass another day at the ornate St. John's Cathedral, a public exposition of the Eucharist caught me by surprise. I joined a motley crowd of Catholics, young and old, in prayer and song before the demands of work pulled me away. No priest kept watch or presided, so those there followed a heartfelt liturgy of their own. The lack of clerical guidance was missed, but a tiny Asian lady filled that void. Within the next hour or so, I listened to the spontaneous preaching of that woman, who had a strong faith and enthusiasm for God; I talked and prayed with an alcoholic and addict, sober for years, who wanted intercession and encouragement to persevere in the daily struggle; I winced at singing that defied any theories of harmony known to humanity. Yet it was admirable and lovely that so many sang to God regardless of such concerns. Before I left, I learned that a Passionist priest and writer of 16 books, Rev. Cedric Pisegna, would finish up a three-day parish mission elsewhere on the next day, Wednesday. Helpful guidance indeed. So the following morning I ended up at St. Anthony of Padua Church in its Our Lady of Guadalupe Chapel. There Pisegna, who has a show on the Eternal Word Television Network and a local network, celebrated Mass and preached on prayer. With jests and true stories, he affirmed that God hears our prayers and miracles do happen in response to them. But then he addressed a common lament: what about those long-term prayers that seem unanswered? In these cases, he proposed, it may be that the greater work of God's grace is taking place in our own selves rather than in the circumstance or loved one for whom we pray. In such situations, he urged acceptance of God's providence without losing hope and becoming resigned. We must trust that God is working in us and through us. An airline passenger once watched in shock, Pisegna joked, as an angry stranger harassed a baggage handler for roughly treating a suitcase. The worker endured this with such calm and dignity that the observer complimented him for his professionalism. The employee replied, "It was easy to take his abuse, because I knew that man would be going to Florida and his bag will be headed to Milwaukee." Acceptance of a situation doesn't mean one must despair of future remedy. On Pentecost Sunday this weekend, some Christians will celebrate the coming of the Holy Spirit. Let us give thanks for that gift of divine guidance and far more. Like all families, the Fresno, California, family of Higinio Lozano, seated, would go through many trials in the 1940s and beyond. The mother of the columnist stands second from the left. By John Rieping | All rights reserved | Published 11 May 2013 in The Madera Tribune
"Peace be with you," the smiling stranger in blue said. Part of my brain suppressed an urge to respond, "And with your spirit." Instead I smiled and I hope managed a suitable reply. As she spoke further I realized I'd encountered another reader of this column, which is always a delight for me. Another such meeting this week introduced me to Rita, who not only relished my writings but also knew my grandfather Higinio Lozano. She did not escape me easily as I sought out what details she could offer. Rita knew him when he owned a grocery store in the Chinatown section of Fresno, California, during the 1940s. He always dressed nicely and wore a bow tie, she said. He employed his own children and other young people, such as her older brother. I knew of this venture, which I'm told flourished during World War II. It later failed because he didn't have the heart to deny people credit, even when they weren't timely with repayments. Most of his customers were farm laborers, and he understood their struggles. During the war, Fresno had a shortage of housing, so the Lozano family lived in a small shed while a friend converted her garage for their use. The nuns of the Company of Mary offered to care for Higinio's teenaged daughter Josefina "Josie" until the family could settle in, and her younger sister Maria Concepcion "Connie", 13, eagerly tagged along. Josie left after only a week or so, but Connie never wanted to leave and so stayed. She felt God had called her to such a life. She officially joined four years later on May 2, 1951, and professed her vows at 19, after obtaining a dispensation to do so at such a young age. She would spend 22 years as a missionary and educator in Japan. My mother, too, sought to join the sisters, but a priest would not let her. He felt God had a different plan for her. In 1970, Higinio's youngest daughter, 29-year-old Carmen, was diagnosed with leukemia, a virulent disease that progressively affects blood-forming organs. Her parents were told she had 30 to 90 days to live, yet she lived for a year and a half. Her final months were at the City of Hope Hospital in Duarte, Calif., and Higinio and his wife were provided an apartment at special rates so they could remain nearby. Carmen's condition left her vulnerable to tragedy. An infestation of insects, unnoticed until it was too late, ate at her throat from the inside. With her vocal cords no longer intact, her family struggled to even hear her whispers. In her last week, she could no longer sit up or even lift her head. Once when her mother visited she found Carmen transfigured by joy. She told her daughter, "Mi hija, you look so beautiful! So radiant!" Carmen just looked at her mother and smiled. Within a week the end would come. On March 23, 1972, she lay dying in the company of her mother and her two brothers, Francisco ("Frank") and Enrique ("Rico"). Rico sat at the foot of the bed while Frank held his sister's hand. She suddenly sat up with a smile and spoke clearly as she gazed intently at the ceiling. "There she is. There she is," she said. "Who? Who is it?" her mother asked. "Is it the Blessed Virgin Maria?" "It's my home," she replied, and then added, "She's so beautiful." Her mother asked again, "Who is it? Who do you see?" But her daughter lay down and peacefully surrendered her soul. She left behind a husband and an adopted 5-year-old daughter, Christina. At her funeral, Higinio led the singing as he celebrated his daughter's birth into Heaven and praised God. Only a few year's later, he too struggled for life as his kidneys faltered. After receiving the sacrament of the anointing of the sick, he died on March 31, 1976, in Saint Agnes Hospital in Fresno. Not many years beforehand, he wrote a poem in Spanish for a lodge brother: "Neither tears nor flowers are of much use in one's tomb, / the final mansion for a mortal's remains, / Nor a marble pedestal, which time consumes. / No one is born into this world who in the end does not succumb; / A humble prayer, the only consolation to gain… "Stoke the flames of our faith and strengthen our hope beyond limit / That we may go to sing your glories with the Heavenly Hosts / praising the Father, Son and Holy Ghost! / So -- until later, brother -- in God's peace rest your spirit." By John Rieping | All rights reserved | Published 27 April 2013 in The Madera Tribune
I went to a woman's funeral in Fresno less than two weeks ago. I did not know her well. But some of those dear to me loved her much. So I mourned with those pained by her absence. Love shows itself in such seemingly opposite ways, from laughter to tears. But despite its many expressions it always, if true, draws us out of ourselves. Love is a kind of gravity that pulls us. But it isn't fate. A joke tells of a 7-year-old girl who shocked her parents by telling them a boy in her class had kissed her after school. The father asked, "How did that happen?" "It wasn't easy," she said, "but three girls helped me catch him." In another joke, a kindergarten teacher at a Christian school explained the 10 Commandments. After explaining the command to "honor thy father and mother," she asked, "Is there a commandment that teaches us how to treat our brothers and sisters?" One boy quickly raised his hand and answered, "Thou shall not kill." Love cannot be forced. It must be a free choice or it is not love. We all know this, yet this freedom can frighten us. All of us fear rejection at times. Professor Brene Brown, Ph.D., of the University of Houston has written three New York Times best-sellers based on her decade of research on shame and vulnerability. Yet her study came about unexpectedly. She had intended to study personal connection, but when she asked people about it they kept sharing about heartbreak and exclusion. After six weeks of this, she decided to follow this common thread in people's stories. She wanted to decipher what it was that seemed to undermine relationships again and again in people's lives, and discovered it was shame -- a fear of being unworthy of connection. So she spent the following decade trying to define and find the solution for shame. She found that shame prevents people from being vulnerable with others, because we don't wish to be fully exposed as we are. However prudent vulnerability is necessary to connect with others. Those who suffered least from shame were those who believed deeply in their worthiness to connect with others -- their lovableness. Because of this, they had the courage to be exposed as imperfect and had compassion, first for themselves and then likewise for others. They accepted emotional risk and vulnerability as necessary to connect with others. There's more Brown concluded from her research, but you can pursue her words yourself if interested (www.brenebrown.com). Instead let us consider a comment left under an online video of a 2010 TEDxHouston talk of hers, "The power of vulnerability" (http://goo.gl/opQRQ). "The problem with believing that one is unconditionally worthy of connection is the fact that people seem to like you and connect with you based on many conditions…," wrote sn3192 on Wednesday. "Believing that you're worthy of connection for simply breathing oxygen may be wonderful, but delusional." That question returns to the uncomfortable root of the problem I think. Where does our worth and lovableness lie? If who we are is defined by what we think, say and do, then how can we be lovely despite the ugliness in some of that? After all, shame is comfortable with partial exposure. It is only unpleasing parts of ourselves that it wishes to conceal. Yet such "invulnerability" is enough to unravel love, because it prevents us from being wholehearted with others. Christians, I think, have an answer to this puzzle. We humans are lovable because God first loved us and loves us still. Even if we were the worst of terrorists, God would love us no less. We could be the greatest in every possible way, and God would love us no more than now. Because God loves us utterly and completely in any case. We have worth not because we breathe oxygen, but because we humans were made in the "image" of God. Like God, we have a higher understanding and a free will. This freedom that can unnerve us with fear of potential rejection by others is the same freedom that God reverences and respects in us. God loves us wholeheartedly while knowing we can reject him. So what now? "A new commandment I give unto you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you also should love one another. This is how all will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another." (John 13:34-35) |
Details
Categories
All
Archives
August 2023
|