Over-under

None for me this time, thank you.

Well now THAT was fun; a festive weekend for the national holiday.   I confess that I underachieved when it comes to most of the big public events.  I did, however, fulfill all righteousness by eating hot dogs and going to a baseball game, riding in a Chevrolet no less.  Hamburgers, ice cream, corn on the cob, and local lager also were on the menu.  Don’t even ask about pie; it was entirely too hot to bake anything and besides, the apples will not be in for months.  The menu was not the only thing that ran the gamut: the weather went from withering heat to gusting downpour and eventually yielded to a cool misty Monday morning-after.    

On the Fourth of July itself, the festive Mass for the nation that we added drew a crowd that was not large, but everyone was glad to be there, offering prayers of gratitude and intercession for our country, leaders, and fellow citizens.  I get the impression a lot of people were away for the weekend; not only were all our Masses underpopulated, but even the Beltway looked like our pews at 8:59 on any given Sunday morning.  Oddly, even the high temperatures did not cause lines to form for the cool, dark confessionals.

I underachieved in some categories for a simple reason: it was a weekend.  A friend was incredulous after the ballgame Friday evening when I told him that cookouts and fireworks were not on the schedule.  My other friend at that table, also a parish priest, sided firmly with me.  Mass and confessions and an extra Mass and more confessions then another Mass…that’s how weekends are for us.  Next time the Fourth falls on a Thursday, then we can relax and enjoy.   

I did make sure Father Tran got the benefit of his Washington sojourn; he viewed the midnight fireworks from a well-placed rooftop in the company of his classmates.  But he also did his part around here; he took the morning Mass on the Fourth and the latest Mass on the fifth to make it work.  When he returns to east Texas he will know where he was in summer school.

Those of you who have not fled the DMV will have noticed that Father Swink is back in the house and on the schedule.  His recovery is continuing according to schedule, but that schedule does not yet indicate “all better,” much less “cavorting like a teenager.”  We are trying to keep his yoke easy and his burden light, so to speak, to make sure that this stage of his convalescence bears good fruit in future health and ability. 

Some of you even got to see Father Wiktor as he spent a few days here between driving back from his diocesan home in Mississippi and flying for a long visit and some academic research in his natal home in Poland.  He will be back here in time for fall term.  

Father Wiktor and I had a quiet dinner together Saturday evening before turning in early to be ready for the work that Sunday morning brings.  I was awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of distant fireworks, clearly a display for the ages.  I felt a twinge of regret for underachieving in that regard and missing a good party.  I did not awaken, though, in the wee hours when Father Tran came home after his patriotic adventure, and I was well rested and ready to leap into the saddle for confessions, and Mass, and baptisms, which is the festivity where I do my best to avoid any underachieving.

Monsignor Smith

Let it fly

For my seminary classmates, 1994 was the year that we did not set foot in the United States, because those were the rules.  As a result, it was the year that the Fourth of July did not happen.  Well, you know the date came and went, but wherever I was just then – Spain?  France maybe?  -- I was having a good time in a great place, but it was not the same.  On my second assignment to Rome, over four years I became accustomed to being in somebody else’s country for our national day.  It did not have the same sting as that first time in 1994. 

I have had epic Fourths of July.  When young, foolish, and living within walking distance of the National Mall, I enjoyed the concert and fireworks on the capitol lawn.  I have mingled at an elegant party of Important People on a balcony a mere block from the White House.  At my bachelor apartment, I pulled together my local friends with extended family visiting town for a fifth of July wedding in a great convivium that adjourned to the roof in time to see in the distance the fireworks of the Mall.  

The best ever was the Bicentennial in 1976.   The Tall Ships.   The Freedom Train.  The neighborhood parade with bicycles decorated by all the kids.  The Flags of the Revolution project for my whole sixth-grade class.  I got the “Bicentennial Camper” rocker for my Camp Sequoyah patch on my first-ever summer camp with Troop 21.  The Bicentennial-edition everything, even, I think, cars.  

The coming into existence of the United States of America is a never-before-in-human history event, and statistically as well as sociologically likely to be a never-ever-again.  Not being omniscient but also not being ignorant of history and life experiences very different from my own, I am firmly convinced that this existence is a good thing on a scale and at a level of impact unmatched by any other human undertaking.  (Before you extend that “just a minute here” finger at me, let me observe, graciously, that the Church is a divine institution.)  Yet I seek no controversy here; I am willing to let that assertion go by the by, undefended.

I will content myself to assert that the existence of the USA is a very good thing for me, personally, and for mine, however you want to parse that possessive.  This is my country, and this is our country.  It is our home, our patria – our fatherland.  As a matter of piety we owe our country love and devotion.  As a matter of honesty we have so much, even everything for which we must give gratitude.  My heart swells at the National Anthem, to which we indeed owe an obligation of respect, and therefore stand and salute.  Patriotism is the debt we cannot pay down for it enriches us far more than it costs.

Look, I am a Boy Scout.  In fact, I am that Boy Scout who would wear his uniform to our high school’s football games each Friday night to raise the flag at the beginning, and then lower it respectfully afterward.  Twenty-five years later, it seemed natural to take responsibility for the flag that flew in front of my seminary in Baltimore for my solitary year there.  I don’t care who calls me a nerd, it is important.  

One of the Catholic commentators I most greatly admire and enjoy solemnly intoned that, as America turns 250, we could all use some humility, austerity, and personal repentance along with the bombast and celebration.  I cry Foul! Wrong you are sir!  This is precisely what we must avoid.  

The toast at a wedding is not the time to make recriminations.  A rehearsal of grudges has no place at a birthday party.  And a eulogy is so called because one speaks well of the deceased – de mortuis nihil nisi bonum.  This is more than manners; this is the fabric that binds families and nations.   

Ours is not a Catholic nation, but Catholics have thrived here beyond the dreams of their forebears and continue to contribute indispensably to the greatness of our country.   From her storehouse of wisdom, our Holy Mother the Church can contribute a more pointed directive, a more foundational principle that can calm the turbulence and reduce friction in these days when everybody has an opinion and some of them are negative.  Remember, brethren, it is forbidden to fast on a feast.  

I may just join Father Swink in a beer this week – a domestic one at that.  Our cuisine will not be haute, but spirits will be high as we mark this great anniversary and celebrate our truly great nation.  To all my fellow citizens who find themselves abroad on this day, I send a greeting and a prayer; may you come home when you will, rejoicing.  To the rest who are somewhere, anywhere in this enormous land, I shout with Saint Peter on Mount Tabor: ‘Tis good, Lord, to be here!  God bless America, and deliver us from evil.

Monsignor Smith