Today is the patronal feast of my parish, Our Lady, Star of the Sea. I offered the first full Mass for my mother’s soul today at the early morning liturgy, which is fitting because she taught me to how love our heavenly mother.
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My greatest fear—and I confess I was afraid, which is always a lack of faith—was that Mom would die alone. My brother took her to the hospital a few days ago for a chest x-ray and they found pneumonia in her lungs, in addition to her chronic congestive heart failure. The doctor gave her a few days to live, but mercifully did not restrict visitors. So on Friday the whole tribe was able to spend time with Mom in her hospital room: Dad (at age 95) led the charge, followed by my siblings and their wives from near and far. With luminous energy, she sang happy birthday to my brother-in-law and welcomed all with shining eyes.

Still, I was worried that she would gasp her last breath on earth alone in a hospital room. It was during the 9:30 Mass yesterday morning, being celebrated by another priest, that I had a moment to call my brother, who had just texted that he was going in to see Mom. He answered the phone in a quiet voice and said the Mom had just died five minutes ago. He and his wife were reading Psalm 23 to her, and had begun one of Mom’s favorite songs, In the Garden, when she took a deep breath, and exhaled one last time. She expired during the morning Mass, just after the lector was reading her name in the prayers of the faithful. An hour later, I offered the next Mass for her soul and realized that for this she had prepared me for the priesthood.

Yesterday a dear friend, whose mother also died on a Sunday just five weeks before my mother, invited me to her Mom’s house with some close friends “to celebrate the successful completion of our mothers’ earthly course.” At the end of the meal I said grace and prayed the usual prayer for the “souls of the faithful departed.” Like a flash of lightning it struck me that my mother was now one of those souls, now passed beyond the thin veil separating time from eternity. I have shed a few tears, but the same conviction comes to me when I learned of Mother Teresa’s death in 1997: she is closer to me know than she could ever have been on earth. She is closer to God now, filled with an understanding love not possible on our side of the grave. Thanks be to God.

For a society that prides itself on self-expression and personal choice, we got lots of rules.

A few weeks ago I took a stroll on a deserted beach at the Jersey Shore, a charming spit of land arching into the Atlantic called Sandy Hook. After I made it past all the signs about mask-wearing and hand-sanitizing and six-feet, a six-foot sign stood between me and the wide-open beach. It said: NO grilling. NO littering. NO kites. NO Pets. NO tents. NO camping. NO fires. NO glass containers. NO metal detectors. NO bicycles.

Hmmmm. Ten “Thou Shalt Nots.” And then, just for good measure, another sign to my right added NO alcohol (because there are NO lifeguards). Eleven commandments for a deserted beach. On Mount Sinai, God Almighty only gave us ten, three of which were positive moral precepts rather than negative prohibitions. I would say that our Brave New World Without God is a bit more negative even than the Old Testament. Do you think that perhaps, despite its guarantees of "personal freedom," we've allowed the Administrative State a little too much control?

Does the government really think a kid flying a kite on beach, or a man walking his dog, or an elderly couple enjoying a bottle of wine, is a threat to public health and safety? I suppose we should just sit still on the beach with our masks and face shields on, safely distant from everyone else. In fact, if you really care about other people, just don’t breathe!

Behind these schoolmarmish signs, a flock of seabirds enjoyed wind, wave, and sunshine. Government regulations had neglected to prohibit “bird-pooping” on Sandy Hook beach. I think I will contact my elected representative to get that regulated. 

Not long ago I went to Ireland for the First Holy Communion of a friend’s niece. We went on to visit the sacred places of Holy Eire, including Our Lady of Knock, Croagh Patrick, and the monasteries of St. Finnbarr (Gougane Barra), St. Kevin (Glendalough), and St. Kieran (Clonmacnoise). We prayed vespers at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin, built on the site where he baptized Ireland’s first Christians. In the centuries following those baptisms, hundreds of Irish saints and scholars would bring Christ to England, France, Germany, Switzerland, Belgium, and other countries, strengthening a waning Catholic faith in Europe. In subsequent centuries, Irish missionaries would bring the faith to Africa, Asia, and the Americas. My own parish was established in 1894 by Irish immigrants who ran horse and cattle farms in what was then called “The Extended Area” west of the City of San Francisco. At one point, there were so many Irish bishops and priests in America that the “hierarchy” was known as the “Hibernarchy!” Irish priests built the parishes and Irish sisters built the schools that built our nation. If Joseph Biden and Nancy Pelosi take pride in their Catholic education, they can thank the Irish monks who brought Christ to  Europe 1500 years ago.

A few miles from the monastery of St. Finnbarr (his feast day is this Saturday!) is the village of Ballingeary. Entering its small parish church, my Irish friend and I saw a red biretta in a glass case with an inscription: “In remembrance of His Eminence, Timothy Cardinal Manning, born in Ballingeary November 14, 1909, Ordained 1934, Bishop of Los Angeles 1946.” Cardinal Manning, the son of a blacksmith in a village of 235 souls, built up the largest archdiocese in America, opening a new parish every month and a new school every other month. Business was booming in the 1950s.

Today Ireland has lost much of its faith. Few Irish attend Mass regularly, or teach their children the faith, or even get married to the people with whom they have children. Ireland legalized abortion two years ago and easily submits to the dictates of gnostic ideologies such as gender and racialist theories. The enemies of Christ are blowing big holes in what was once Ireland’s thriving Christian culture, and the Irish are defenseless against the onslaught. In the four parishes in which I concelebrated Mass during my visit, only one had an Irish priest, an elderly and charming man, but helpless against the destruction of his Church. The other priests were from Poland, Nigeria, India, and anywhere the Irish bishops can get them. They are good men, but not missionaries, not fired with energy to build the Church in Ireland. Where are the Irish priests? The parishes of Ireland are mostly empty, museum pieces of a once thriving society, while the hierarchy can manages only the most feeble resistance against the overwhelming firepower of the enemy.

And yet, the Irish people retain their charm, which springs from their natural faith in humanity and, I hope, deep-seated faith in God. I pray that God sends a new St. Patrick to Ireland, another St. Kieran, a modern St. Lawrence O’Toole, to rebuild its faith. What has happened to Ireland is happening to America. We pretend that we are Catholic, but we buy into every gnostic and pagan ideology that comes our way. We do not pull our children from schools that teach them to despise religion and to hate their bodies. A beloved and respected priest in a nearby San Francisco parish told me that “we priests are just here to close up the churches as gently as we can.” But I believe that another St. Patrick will come to us, another St. Francis to rebuild the Church, for God continues to send His prophets. As we await these saints, and as we hope for the rebirth of Christian culture, let us remain faithful to our own parishes, to our own families, and to our personal prayer. In the words of Padre Pio (his feast day is this Thursday!): prega, spera, e non ti preoccupare! Pray, hope, and do not worry. Jesus Christ is Lord, and He will provide.

​Yesterday I approached San Francisco’s dreaded Department of Motor Vehicles to update my license. I pass by the massive bureaucracy, which occupies an entire city block, several times a week and gaze with pity on the lines of slump-shouldered working people snaking around the block. The last time I ventured into DMV, 30 years ago, I spent an entire day in that complex, shuffling from one line to another.
 
With the wonders of the internet, however, I was able to fill out forms and upload documents ahead of my appointment this time. Once inside the building, however, I became disoriented at the scores of windows, staffers, screens, and waiting lines. The security guard came up to me with a smile: “Father, check your number on that screen and wait in that area to be called.” I was touched by his kindness and gladly took a seat.
 
When my number came up I moved to window 27. The clerk said to me “good morning, father,” providing a kindly chat while processing my documents. “God bless you” he called out as I left the window. I returned the blessing.
 
My next stop was “Camera B,” at which an officious woman was trying her level best to move the line quickly. She called out to me when my turn came, “next—step right up to the camera.” She seemed agitated, but as we talked, and I bantered a bit, she softened up. “What church are you at, father?” I told her Star of the Sea at 8th and Geary. “Oh, I’ve been past that church many times, but never stopped in. Are you open? Do you have Masses? I haven’t received Holy Communion since last March.” I assured her we were open with three daily Masses, and looked forward to seeing her sometime. “I’ll be there,” she chirped. “See you soon, father!”
 
All three of these good people are, from the perspective of the state, cogs in the vast machinery of the city. One would not expect any sense of transcendence from one doing such a mundane job. But all three seemed delighted to see a man of the cloth. They seemed reassured that God had not abandoned them, after all, even in the depths of the DMV. These seemed relieved. And their relief relieved me. Beneath the layers of the all-consuming state, God is present and we are human beings, made in His image, not merely cogs in a machine.