My heartfelt thanks to those who are praying for my poor old eyes! They seem to get better, then they seem to get worse—kind of like life in general. Your prayers (especially to good St. Lucy) will help me get through this particular vale of tears (quite literally--my right eye was weeping this morning!). On my part, I say a prayer every day for "all those who read 'frilloblog'."

You may know of Bishop Athanasius Schneider, from the Diocese of St. Mary-Astana, Kazakhstan. Bishop Schneider’s parents were exiled from their native Germany to Kazakhstan by the Soviets, and while he speaks six or seven languages (including Kazakh, Russian, Italian, Portuguese and English), his mother tongue is German. In 2018 I gave him a ride from Monterey to San Francisco, and when I asked in what language he would like to pray the rosary, he replied without hesitation "auf Deutch!" You may have read his 2019 book Christus Vincit; last month he published Flee From Heresy about how the Church's doctrinal struggles of the 5th Century help us understand the current situation. Bishop Schneider is a fine and fearless theologian who knows a thing or two about living the faith under difficult circumstances.
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His current book complements last year’s Credo: A Compendium of the Catholic Faith, and he will be speaking on both books at our parish on September 16. I will have his books for sale, and I’m sure he will be glad to sign one for you. If you are within driving distance, come and hear Bishop Schneider speak at Star of the Sea on Monday, September 16, at 5:30pm.

Four weeks ago I had eye surgery to improve my vision, but the healing process is not going too well. I think I’m getting better, but even the best doctors cannot guarantee that every surgery will be successful. For the last month I’ve been a bit blind, not able to see clearly beyond 18 inches. Many people report marvelous improvement after lens replacement surgery, but some report a decline in vision.
 
Almost everyone’s eyesight declines with age. The medical term is “presbyopia,” literally “old man’s vision,” from the Greek “elder” (presbyter) + “eye” (ops). You could also call it “priest-eye,” which I’ve been developing since I was ordained 33 years ago. You see less with your eyes, but (hopefully) you see more with your mind. Blind philosophers feature prominently in Greek literature.
 
I thank the doctors for trying to help us “old men” and priests see better, but the (hopefully) temporary blindness has been hard to accept. I used to have eagle eyes, able to see distant objects with marvelous precision, but now I can only see one step in front of me. But blindness is good for me because now I have to learn to trust that God has a path laid out for me even though I can’t see it. I have to get used to not seeing everything clearly, which means I have to believe even though I can’t see. I have to believe that God is there, even though I can’t see Him.
 
In 1933, St. John Henry Newman got sick. He was then an Anglican priest touring Italy, disorientated in his religion, struggling to know whether God was a Protestant or a Catholic. The more Newman studied history and theology, the more he saw that Christianity was Catholic, upending his entire worldview. His trip to Italy was particularly confusing in that regard. He ended up in Sicily with no way to get back to England, and to cap it all he came down with some kind of violent fever. There he lay in sweat and agony, helpless and blind. It was from this experience that he wrote these lines:
 
Lead, Kindly Light, amidst th'encircling gloom,
Lead Thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home,
Lead Thou me on!
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene; one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou
Shouldst lead me on;
I loved to choose and see my path; but now
Lead Thou me on!
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will. Remember not past years!

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on.
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone,
And with the morn those angel faces smile,
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile!
 
There comes a time in everyone’s life when we have to give up on trying to find our way. We have to  accept our blindness and allow someone else to lead us. Since birth we have been “far from home,” but now we realize it, with no way to find our way back. When we were young, we loved to “choose and see our path,” but now … Lead Thou Me On.
 
Newman is a saint because he gave up. He surrendered, in loving trust, to God. Thanks be to God that I can still see enough to read (actually better than before—thanks Doc!). I reread Newman’s poem this morning with great consolation. Someday, I will not even see enough to read. When that outward darkness comes to me, I hope to remember Newman’s insight and the discernment of all the saints. I hope to still believe that So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still will lead me on; and with the morn those angel faces smile.” I will not be able to see Him with my eyes, but I will know that He is there.

Today is the feast of St. John Vianney, patron of parish priests, of which I am the least. Every priest must admit that he is “the least,” completely incapable of the task given to him. But by God’s grace, as St. Paul wrote, “I am what I am.” Fr. Vianney would usually refer to himself as “his poor self,” and as “a poor priest,” a “miserable priest.”
 
If that sounds like a self-esteem issue to modern sensibilities, consider these thoughts from his sermon on the virtue of humility: “My children, we are in reality only what we are in the eyes of God, and nothing more. Is it not quite clear and evident that we are nothing, that we can do nothing, that we are very miserable? …  If we were to consider well what we are, humility would be easy to us, and the demon of pride would no longer have any room in our heart.”
 
In weaker moments, Fr. John Vianney lamented his pastorate at St. Sixtus parish in the village of Ars. The people left him almost no time to read, to pray and to rest, such that he slept only 2-3 hours a night. He longed to escape to a Trappist monastery “to spend his remaining years weeping over his sins.” John Vianney was not depressed. Sad priests do not draw people in, but by 1845 over 20,000 people a year were coming to his parish from all over Europe, such that the French government had to open a special train line to his village. John Vianney was not “miserable” in a sad way, but he certainly did not feel up to the task of parish priest. In fact, he tried to escape his parish several times….
 
One of my favorite John Vianney stories happened just a few years before the Good God finally allowed him to retire. He had written his bishop several times asking to be released from parish work, and he had already tried to leave his parish twice. One night in 1853 he tried to escape again, getting as far as the outskirts of the village, across the little river La Pierre, on his way to the nearest Trappist Monastery. His parishioners were ready for this, however, and called to him from the other side of the river. Mon Père, Mon Père, they cried, où est sa bréviaire? (“Father, Father, where is your breviary?”) The hapless priest feverishly searched his bag but came up empty-handed. The triumphant parishioners held up the black prayer book, and Fr. Vianney sheepishly returned to his parish. He died six years later, still yoked to his parish, hearing confessions right to the end.
 
Before smartphones, priests would refer to breviaries as our “wives.” In the seminary if you misplaced your breviary you would call out “has anyone seen my wife?” Priests make a vow to pray our breviaries five times a day, and they are never far from us. We prop up books on them, use them as pillows on backpacking trips, and store all sorts of essentials in their capacious leather covers (reading glasses, writing instruments, notepaper, emergency cash, holy cards, drivers’ licenses, and Latin cue cards, among other fundamentals). Most of us even sleep with our breviaries, or at least keep them at our bedsides (when not using them as a pillow on the trail).
 
Nowadays many priests pray the divine office on their phones rather than from their breviaries, which is certainly more convenient. I must confess that I pray from my phone while camping or riding, because a phone weighs far less than a breviary and takes up less room in the backpack or cycle pocket. It is good for priests, however, to pray from their breviaries, and to keep their breviaries close. Unlike a smartphone, a breviary is all and only the Word of God.
 
Love for his breviary brought Fr. John Vianney back to his parish. May we parish priests hold our breviaries close, with great affection, as did our patron saint.