In the seminary we just couldn’t figure out which was which, and I still can’t. Is a person’s goodness biological or theological? Are people beautiful because evolution formed them with symmetry and proportion over eons, or are people beautiful because God’s grace touches them with glory? Is a Redwood Forest beautiful of itself, or do I see it as beautiful because God’s grace opens my eyes? We had an entire seminary course on “Nature and Grace,” and the big takeaway was that “Grace builds on Nature.” That means that God created us good, true, and beautiful, but that we need God’s grace to reach our full potential. We need grace because original sin (our innate tendency to fear and selfishness) darkens our goodness and tarnishes our beauty. Only God’s grace can heal our Original Wound.
 
Yesterday my Original Wound was bleeding. I was feeling HALT: “hungry angry lonely tired.” The weather had derailed a much-anticipated day off with my priest buddies, and the parish office was a bit more toxic than usual because of somebody else’s bleeding Original Wound.
 
So I jumped on my motorbike and raced across the Golden Gate Bridge for a hike. The stormy weather, as it turns out, had supercharged Mount Tamalpais’ ravines with roaring waters, which swirled around the towering redwood trees on one of Marin County’s most charming (and least known) trails. I only met two people on the way down to Muir Woods, and both were full of smiles. “I’ve never seen this much water!” one of them beamed as we passed each other beside a torrential Redwood Creek. “How was your hike?” I asked the other. She replied that it was “just what she needed” as a waning sun cast delicate hues over the vast Pacific.
 
A brisk hike through Redwood glades is about as beautiful as nature gets, and the three of us soaked it up yesterday. But it’s not enough to worship trees (as tempting as that is). Nature only goes so far if we don’t look up, to the tippy tops of those trees, to the God who made them. Nature, in the end, will always fail us: my eyes will grow dim, my legs will grow wobbly, and I will die. Yet even in my dotage, yea even as I lay dying, my heart will long for life with a longing that must be satisfied.  
 
Every drizzly November I vaguely dread the lengthening of darkness as daylight grows shorter. How can I make it through another winter? I’m getting too old for cold and dark. And then Grace steps in, the Grace of Christmas. Just at that time of year when nature is failing us, Advent and Christmas supercharge us with joy. Christmas takes us across nature’s threshold of darkness (the Winter Solstice on December 22). In a week, the days will begin growing longer, and nature will be on the road to recovery.
 
I think the secular culture’s extension of “the Christmas” or “the Holiday” season is motivated by more than just commercial profit. I think even atheists need Christmas. As daylight fades in late October and November, we need a bright holiday to offset the growing darkness. Thanksgiving and Christmas are essentially religious holidays, because Grace builds on Nature. Without Grace, a redwood tree is just a tree. Without Grace, Christmas is just a show. But with Grace, a tree is a gift, a sign of God’s providence and burning love for us, a sacrament pointing to heaven. With Grace, Christmas provides us a bright and loving home, beside the ox and the ass, with Jesus, Mary and Joseph.
 

A blessed and happy St. Nicholas Day. After daily Mass this morning my school teacher friend Clarice gave me a children’s book entitled St. Joseph’s Donkey with a candy cane taped to the cover as my St. Nicholas gift. I love reading children’s books!
 
Fr. Wolfgang Seitz of Opus Sanctorum Angelorum (“work of the holy angels”) gave his first of three Advent Mission talks last night to a good crowd in the church. Three takeaways for me were: 1) angels are everywhere, billions of them, at every Mass, at your workstations, at home, on the hiking trails and freeways and grocery stores. We usually can’t see them, but we should think about them and call upon them for help 2) the mission of the angels is to strengthen us, to take away our fears. Fear is the primary weapon of the fallen angels, to cancel human joy and initiative. 3) angels are part of our families, so that if you have five people at home, you actually have ten, because God has given each member of your family a guardian angel. Fr. Wolfgang told the story of the Angel Gabriel from the Book of Tobit, and the story of the Angel of Peace who appeared to the children at Fatima six times in 1915 and 1916. If you are within a half hour or so of the parish, I urge you to take advantage of Fr. Seitz’s two remaining talks on the angels, tonight and tomorrow night, at 7pm in the church.
 
Even if you live two hours away, however, I urge you not to miss the talk by George Cardinal Pell on Wednesday at 7pm in the church, entitled “A Suffering Church in a Suffering World.” I think this Australian is one of the great prelates of our time because of his serene and faithful navigation of our troubled cultural waters.

In 2010 I was on sabbatical in Rome and somewhat aware of Vatican politics. Word came down that Cardinal Pell had been tapped to be Prefect for the Congregation of Bishops, arguably the most powerful and important Vatican department because it selects the world’s bishops. One morning, however, all the talk at breakfast was how Cardinal Pell’s appointment had been contravened, and another man appointed. Clearly, some people in the labyrinth of Vatican politics did not want Cardinal Pell overseeing the selection of the world’s bishops.

In 2014 Pope Francis appointed Cardinal Pell as Prefect to the newly-created “Secretariat for the Economy.” The Vatican had been leaking millions of euros every year and Cardinal Pell’s first task was to clean up the mess. Within a year at the Vatican Bank, with the Pope’s support, he instituted “financial management practices in line with international standards,” as he wrote, that “will help all Entities and Administrations of the Holy See and the Vatican City State prepare financial reports in a consistent and transparent manner.” Apparently Cardinal Pell was uncovering some sources of the financial leakage and making enemies. In 2017 he was thanked for his service as one of the Pope’s senior advisors and let go. In 2019 his term as head of Vatican finances was not renewed. In the same month, charges of sexual abuse were made against him from Australia. The actions of which he was accused would have been physically impossible in the time and place in which they were alleged, as his lawyers proved later during his trial. Nevertheless, his accusers continued to make the allegations, with a coordinated media campaign against him. As a citizen of the Vatican City State with diplomatic immunity, Cardinal Pell did not have to respond to litigation that was preposterous and unprovable, but he returned to Australia to clear his name and to defend the honor of the Church. He lost the first court case, and he lost an appeal, and so spent more than a year in prison for a crime he did not commit. Finally Australia’s High Court dismissed the charges on the grounds that conclusive evidence was simply lacking. Through all this, Cardinal Pell did not complain, nor lose his patience and good humor, nor refuse to suffer unjustly.

I’ve read his first of three Prison Journals, and what impresses me most about this man is his serenity, his confidence in the perfect will of God in all circumstances. This faith preserves him from anger against his enemies or discouragement in the face of life’s manifold injustices. I think we can learn a lot from Cardinal Pell, who will speak at Star of the Sea this Wednesday, December 8th at 7pm. No tickets are needed, and he will be signing his books, which will be available from Ignatius Press at the presentation. 

​Happy feast of St. Andrew, the incredible man of faith who died in an incredible way: on an X-shaped cross. Wait. Every time I hear the word “incredible” more than once I cringe. My advice is not to take anyone seriously who uses the word “incredible” twice in two sentences.
 
“Incredible” has been the hype word of choice for the last ten years, an adjective people use when they don’t think we are taking their hysteria seriously enough. At best, it indicates a dismal ignorance of language, and at worst a banal attempt at shock value. The word means “non-belief,” and its constant use probably manifests an unthinking rejection of faith in anything larger than basic “science.” One could say “technology” is incredible, and one would be right.
 
Take the curious case of Lauren Donahue, program director for new student engagement at Notre Dame, a university that built on faith in Jesus Christ. At a pre-Welcome Week meeting for her volunteers, Miss Donahue made all her volunteers wear rainbow pins. In an interview with the Irish Rover, an independent newspaper run by Notre Dame undergraduates, she explained: 
 
“I view my work as honoring the inherent dignity that every individual has in the likeness and image of God, and I think conversations about allyship and inclusion go hand in hand to that for me. The characteristics of what it means to be an ally and what it means to be inclusive feels incredibly rooted in the way that I live out my Catholic faith, and I think it is one that the university strives for similarly—that all are welcome at the Eucharistic table. If you imagine the way that Jesus broke bread, who he was breaking bread with was just incredibly inclusive.”

Note first that Miss Donahue talks a lot about herself in those lines (“my work,” “for me,” “I live out my Catholic faith”). It’s not the Catholic faith she describes, but her opinion of the Catholic faith. Note second that she uses the word “incredible” twice in two sentences, referring oxymoronically to the “incredible Catholic faith” and the “incredible way Jesus broke bread.” I think she really does “believe” that Jesus is incredible—that one cannot really believe in Him or the Bread that He breaks. Don’t trust her! I’m sure she’s a very nice person, actually, but probably somewhat lacking in the Christian faith. May God have mercy on us all, as my Dad used to say.

Speaking of Dads, the incredible Australian Cardinal, George Pell, is coming to Star of the Sea next week, on December 8th. More about that in my next post. But come if you can, at 7pm in the church.

We have come to the end, the last Sunday of the liturgical year. Every November the Archbishop offers a Mass for deceased clergy in the mausoleum where the prelates of San Francisco are buried. Afterwards we process to the priest section of Holy Cross Cemetery singing the litany of saints. Some of these men were saints, and some of them were sinners. Some of them were heroes of the faith who built the Church in what used to be one of America’s most Catholic cities, and some of them were criminals who destroyed the faith of children and adults alike, emptying the churches their brothers built up. But all of them are dead, and all of them have been judged by the great High Priest, Christ the King and Supreme Judge of men. 
 
Last year, as he stood before the tombs of San Francisco’s first archbishop, Joseph Alemany, and of San Francisco’s first Cardinal, William Levada, and the other prelates, Archbishop Cordileone gave a striking homily. “It certainly seems,” he said quietly in the echoing halls of the dead, “that we are witnessing the end of life as we have known it, and even the end of the Church as we have known her. But let it not frighten or upset us. Heaven and earth will pass away, says the Lord, but my Word will not pass away.” This week we celebrate Thanksgiving for all that God has given us, and we refrain from complaining about what He has not given us. Most of all we thank God for the gift of eternal life, when the long cycle of seasons, of endings and beginnings, comes to its perfection in those who believe in Him.
 
Heaven is God’s gift but requires endurance on our part, which St. Paul describes as longanimitas in Latin—long-suffering, literally “to a great length.” Our pilgrimage to heaven is a marathon, not a sprint. “We do not cease praying for you,” he reassures us on as persevere through discouragement, weariness, and scandal. Without doubt the Apostle is praying for us today, as we see the Bark of Peter taking on water at all sides, listing badly to the portside—that is, to the left—apparently sinking. Only he who “perseveres to the end will be saved” Christ warns us. In Latin, the words are permanserit usque ad finem, “stays with him until the end.” We have to make it the finish line—to the day of our death—with our faith intact. In heaven, the Church hierarchy will not be needed, and we will no longer need even the sacraments, because we will have Christ himself. He will bring about full justice, perfect peace and the tranquility of order. But that day has not yet come, and so we must keep working and keep walking, maintaining hope and stamina.
 
No one knows the time or the exact manner in which the Lord will return, but he describes that day in today’s Gospel in these words: when you will see a desolating abomination in the holy place, you must flee to the mountains. When you see sacrilege, perversion, and crime in your priests, in the sanctuary, you must flee to the “mountain,” taking only your faith. Catholic altars are built on little “mountains,” elevated platforms with three steps to symbolize Calvary. Some of these altars have been desecrated by criminal clergy, but some are still clean. If you see the “desolating abomination” in your holy place—in your parish—flee to a parish that has persevered in purity and right worship. Jesus assures us that had those days not been shortened even the elect would lose their faith. Is it possible that we are entering these times?  
 
Many priests and bishops have abandoned their vocations, although they still wear the garb. Wolves in sheep’s clothing fill the Church. When Pope Benedict took the office of Peter, he asked the Church to pray for him, “that I may not flee for fear of the wolves.” It seems that he did flee, perhaps because we did not pray enough. In the last few years some of even the highest ecclesiastical authorities have been revealed as deceitful and malignant. It is certainly a difficult time for us. But we can and we must persevere in our faith. As Alexander Solzhenitsyn wrote: “Let the lie come into the world, let it even triumph. But not through me.” We cannot reform the Church. Pope Benedict failed, and Pope Francis is failing. But we can remain faithful as individual disciples. Even if our prelates and friends and civil leaders betray the faith, we will not. We will turn ever more fervently to the Mass, to confession, to intense interior lives with Our Lady, holding on desperately until He returns, which He surely will, and sooner than we think. Come, Lord Jesus! 

​

​A bookmark fell out of the little volume I’ve been reading these last few mornings, Priests—What Lies Ahead. More about the bookmark later.
 
I found chapter four of this book particularly edifying. Don Livio Melina, then president of a Roman university specializing in the theology of marriage, sexuality, and family life, speaks on priests as “physicians, healers of wounds.” He points to the “original wound” in every human person, our longing to love and be loved, to understand and be understood, an open wound that never completely heals. Sexual love is both the symptom of that longing and the cure, but even the most fulfilling sexual union is not meant to be perfect. Sexual union itself points to a higher good, like every other good thing in life. Delectable foods, beautiful sunsets, warm human friendships, and every other earthly good is sacramental. It reveals--points to--something greater, but it also modestly conceals that greater good by its own relative goodness.
 
Holding out for a Supreme Good is a risk, because there’s no “scientific” proof that it exists. What if “sex” is as much as we get in life? What if there’s nothing more than expensive restaurants, fast cars, and cosmetic beauty? Most of us, most of the time, say “a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.” We don’t want to risk losing what we’ve got, even though it is never quite enough. “Postmodern man,” writes Don Livio, “is always in a limbo of indecision because he never definitively risks his life.”
 
In this age of government safety-nets and technological security, we are trained to avoid risk. But completely eliminating all risk also eliminates human love, which is always risky. For that matter, total “safety” eliminates human excellence in sports, business, politics, and every other human endeavor, which by definition requires overcoming obstacles which could cause serious harm. “Stay Safe” means “Don’t Risk,” which means “Don’t Commit.” We are told to keep our options open and always have a few exit plans.
 
Priests are ordained for life, without an exit plan, putting all our hope in God’s providence. They do this to be able to heal the original wound in the human heart. His own wound (especially his celibacy, but also his poverty and his obedience) bleeds continuously, pointing him to God, who alone can heal his fundamental wound. Some call priests “wounded healers,” even as the great High Priest, Christ, healed our original wound from his open wounds on the Cross.
 
Priests today are deeply wounded, along with everyone else. But today, perhaps unlike in previous epochs, Catholic priests see their bride, the Church, hemorrhaging blood and pus. Not only have some clergy proven just as criminal as some politicians and Hollywood moguls, but it seems like almost all of Church leadership has become indecisive, helpless, and hopeless. Is there any hope for a Church that has been proven so feeble?
 
“I would tell the priest,” Don Livio writes, “to cultivate more and more the hope of the farmer, who sows in difficult times, too, with the certainty that God will ripen the generously sown seed in the fullness of time.” That hope in a future we cannot see or control requires blind trust. It is a risk.
 
Which brings us to the bookmark that fell out of Don Livio’s this morning. It is the ordination card of a younger priest I greatly respect, Fr. Cameron Faller. He was ordained on June 6, 2015, in San Francisco. He lived a year with us at Star of the Sea and is now archdiocesan vocations director.
 
“Father,” the card begins, “I abandon myself into your hands. Do with me what you will. Whatever you may do, I thank you: I am ready for all. I accept all. Let only your will be done in me, and in all your creatures. I wish no more than this, O Lord. Into your hands I commend my soul; I offer it to you with all the love of my heart, for I love you, Lord, and so need to give myself, to surrender myself into your hands, without reserve, and with boundless confidence, for you are my Father.”
 
It is Charles de Foucauld who wrote this prayer. Of French nobility, Charles became a Calvary officer in 1881, exploring North Africa, winning heroic renown as a dashing French soldier. Following a profound conversion of heart, however, he built a hermitage in the Algerian desert, serving the Taureg people. He was assassinated in a Bedouin raid, is buried in El Menia, and will be canonized on May 15. His life marvelously portrays one man’s complete surrender to God’s will, heedless of the risks. He is a mystery that both reveals and conceals the mystery of God. This is what priests are ordained to be: men that take the greatest risk of all, complete surrender to a God no one can “prove” even exists. Not many of us do it very well, but some do, like Blessed Charles de Foucauld, and, I pray, Fr. Cameron Faller and today’s young priests.