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Bringing Light

christmas-light-On Saturday, December 22, 2007, St. Cecilia’s had already replaced our annual Toy Sale with an open house for the neighborhood. (Much to Father Dan’s satisfaction: no more plastic toys!) Friends from suburban parishes had arrived early to deliver groceries to share with our neighbors. Families from all over Mount Pleasant  gathered on that Saturday morning, along with parishioners, to sing carols, have a meal, pick up a bag of food, and socialize.

This is the beginning of the homily Father Dan preached the next day, the Fourth Sunday of Advent.

I love this time of year, when our church gets such a workout. Yesterday, the place was jammed with people. I’ve never seen so many people. On one level, it’s a tragedy that so many are so much in need. I’m sure many of them would have preferred not to have to come for food. But, still, there was something so awesome in the way that people connected and related to one another.

We had a little pageant with the children, and this year, more than ever, many people came up to me and said, “We are so grateful for a little quiet time and for a religious service.” We actually ran out of food by the end, but nobody was bent out of shape about that. They said they were going home with more than they came with.

There was a wonderful atmosphere, as people from Broadview Heights, Macedonia, our own parish, from all over, came to make Christmas happen in our midst. The Zivsak family cooked about 200 pounds of meat for tacos. We had a taco bar! People stayed and sang Christmas carols and had a great old time.

It was a lovely day. We have a lot to be proud of in the experience. I have to say, for me, the power was in those moments yesterday when you could see the light. Sometimes you can’t see the light that’s right in your midst, because there’s so much other light. But other times, in the middle of darkness, when that light starts to shine, it really shines, and then you can recognize it.

Another Last Mass

I chose a chair in the back row. When Mildred and Elaine arrived and sat nearby, they told me, “We’re from the neighborhood.” That was significant, because most of the people gathered in Father Jim and Sister Maggie’s spartan living room were not from the neighborhood. The Central neighborhood defines “inner city”; just southeast of Cleveland’s Public Square, it’s adjacent to, but separate from the bustling area around Progressive Field, where the Indians play, and the Q, home of the Cavs. When Langston Hughes lived in Cleveland, he attended Central High School, as did John D. Rockefeller and John L. Severance, after whom Severance Hall is named, home of the Cleveland Orchestra. Today, most suburbanites skirt Central on their way to a game. The visitors here on East 35th Street tonight, however, are in the habit of stopping in and staying for awhile—weeding the community garden, helping to build a Habitat house, and attending the weekly Mass Father Jim O’Donnell has been celebrating in this living room for 40-some years.

He has been celebrating Mass and, with Sister Maggie Walsh-Conrad, befriending the neighbors, and, yes, raising children in a unique ministry, ever since Jean Vanier changed Father Jim’s life at a retrueat.

Sr. Maggie & Fr. Jim

Sr. Maggie & Fr. Jim

He looked him in the eye and said, “Don’t you see that God is calling you to spend the rest of your life with people who are poor?” Jean Vanier, at 89, still lives in community with people with disabilities in the original L’Arche community he founded at Trosly-Breuil in France. Father Jim, a mere 87, is raising two young teenagers, former foster children, along with Sister Maggie.

Tonight was the final Mass on East 35th Street. The little family has moved 130 blocks west to a safer neighborhood for the kids. Most of the attendees were long-time friends and supporters of the ministry. This was my first time, though I had intended to come to this evening Mass for many years. I felt like an interloper, although Father Jim, whom I interviewed a couple weeks ago, had invited me. But then, whom would he not invite?

There was a guitar, played by a man in a flannel shirt, and there was standing room only. The kids did the readings. Sister Maggie cried when she spoke first during the homily. “We are the church. We are the temple. We are all holy. We are all blessed,” she said.

She handed the mic to Father Jim, who began, “Behind every man, there’s a great woman,” and everyone laughed appreciatively. Acknowledging the bittersweet nature of the evening, he went on, “The spirit goes wherever we go. We strive to bring the presence of God to whatever we do. Your ministry of presence to us has been just as important as ours to you and others. You are the chosen stories. Know your own goodness, kindness, and love.”

The communion bread and wine were passed around from person to person. Father Jim requested a final song from Elaine, the woman sitting near me. Her face shining with tears, she moved to the front of the room and said, “This song might seem strange, but it has been on my heart all day.” She led us in singing “Oh Come, All Ye Faithful,” which somehow seemed exactly right. Then a neighborhood guy named Anthony wanted to sing a song, too. The percussive sounds he made were uncannily clear–the opening riff of the Temptations’ “My Girl”–and we joined in on that, too. Two verses.

Afterwards, there was food and lots of talk and hugs and tears in that house. I spoke to the few people I recognized and slipped out into the chilly fall night. I was glad I had finally made it.


skunk_41181883_250One time, I asked Father Dan to explain suffering. I wanted him to tell me why it exists. Why is there such profound pain and fear, even for animals?

In response, Father Dan launched into a story. He had recently been in his car on a beautiful sunny day, and there was an animal, a skunk, who’d been hit by a car and ended up in his driveway. Somehow I remember his calling it a mother skunk, but I don’t know how he knew this.

The injured skunk was dragging herself along the concrete. She was injured badly, bleeding and dying. Father Dan pulled up beside her and opened his car door. He sat looking down at her, as she panted and bled. He spoke to her quietly. “Are you going to stay there all day?” he asked. Eventually, she pulled herself into the shade, almost under the car. He didn’t mention praying. He just spoke gently to the skunk, watching over her until she died.

At the time, I was left wondering as I had so often, why is he telling me this story? I thought he wasn’t answering my question. I understood that he couldn’t, because he couldn’t answer that biggest question of all: Why is there suffering?

He couldn’t explain why, so instead, he told me what he could. He told me with a parable, like Jesus, what you do with the suffering.

“I have to accept what is,” Father Dan would always say. That’s the starting point, even in situations where something helpful can be done. There was no saving that skunk. There was no mitigating its suffering, even, although I suppose some people might have run over it to put it out of its misery.

Father Dan wasn’t going to run over the skunk and kill it, so he did what he could. He witnessed. He comforted, just in case the skunk understood.  He felt compassion. He was telling me what to do: be present for the skunk, be present for the moment, for what was happening, right in front of you. You choose the light, but first you have to recognize the darkness.

Scattered Seed

I’m trying to write about the experience we called Scattered Seed, after the diocese closed our parishes St. Cecilia and Epiphany, along with so many others. This prelude to our last Mass, on August 7, 2016, is sustaining. It’s all good. I play over and over Bob Kachurek singing “Create in Me,” accompanied by J.T. Lynch on sax and Gwen Yates on piano. Starts around the 11:55 mark.


Teaching Vietnam Vets

classroomI was a naïve girl of 24 teaching English 101 in the spring of 1975 at Kent State University. I had already taught freshman composition for a semester, and I had been a student teacher at McKinley High School in Canton, Ohio, a couple of years before. I had a little teaching experience, but I realize now I had no idea what I was doing.

Among the twenty students I faced that quarter were seven Vietnam veterans. Or, more accurately, seven is the number I’ve stored in my head; at any rate there were a bunch. Because the war had “wound down,” as we used to say, these guys ended up in my Satterfield Hall classroom on the GI Bill. They were new to college and were starting in the off semester, in the spring rather than the fall. A few of these student vets dropped out of my class, I think. I remember only two of them.

One guy was probably a little older than I and was married. His hair was short, his face was clean-shaven, and his short-sleeved, button-down shirt was always tucked in. He spoke quietly. He turned in assignments on time, and, as I recall, he wrote cautiously about safe, limited topics. In a conference in my office, I tentatively broached the subject of his Vietnam service, and he answered politely that he wanted to put the past behind him. “I just don’t think about it,” he said. “I think about the future.” Looking back, I see him as tightly composed, just like his tidy clothes, expending most of his energy to maintain control.

He often recoiled from the other vet who sticks in my memory. He’d wince when this second guy—I’ll call him Jim–would start expatiating in class about the government and marijuana and the police. If you lived through that time (1975 was really still the sixties) and especially if you were in college, you know what I mean. Discussions inevitably turned to war and Nixon and “society,” and people would start ranting, and the conservatives would start defending the war or condemning drugs, or sometimes just purse their lips and shake their heads.

Jim had long hair and a beard and wore a fatigue jacket and scruffy jeans. He’d take up most of the oxygen  in the room, speaking loudly, waving his arms, looking at other students for reactions as he spoke. I don’t remember if I realized it then, but now I understand he came to class drunk or high most of the time.


One article of faith governed my teaching of writing: if students cared about the subject, their writing would be better. If they were invested in their arguments, their arguments would be both convincing and interesting. In the mid-seventies, for whatever reason, I thought a perfect hot-button topic was homosexuality. I thought it would get everyone fired up, and they’d write passionate essays about their convictions. No doubt, I also thought my gentle guidance and moral righteousness would open their minds, but I imagined myself as tolerant and accepting. I can’t remember how I set up the assignment, but “homosexuality” was the general idea. It didn’t occur to me that I might have gay students who would feel uncomfortably vulnerable.

I don’t remember the tightly-wound vet’s reaction to the assignment, but Jim asked if he could see me in my office. He entered, already talking, and wiggled in his chair and gestured wildly. He meandered just as he did in class, but kept repeating he just couldn’t write about homosexuals. Here’s why I remember this conversation. “Man, I don’t know what to say. What am I going to write?” he said. “All I know is that in ‘Nam some guys would take them out in the jungle and frag them.”

Maybe you already know the word, but, if not, tonight’s episode of PBS’s The Vietnam War covered fragging—the practice of killing your own men. Some grunts in Vietnam, for example, fragged officers who were unreasonably endangering their troops.

I told Jim he could pick another topic.


As the quarter went on, Jim’s attendance flagged, and he missed assignments. The writing he turned in was as disheveled as his clothes. He was failing the class. He came to me right before grades were due to plead for mercy. I told him it was too late. His writing needed a lot of work before he could attempt English 102.

He begged me for a C. If he got a D or F, he told me, he’d lose his GI Bill funding and have to drop out of school. He didn’t cry, and he didn’t get mad. But his conversation wandered everywhere, and he didn’t always make sense.  I wasn’t afraid amd never felt threatened, but I realized the guy sitting in front of me was unhinged. He was damaged. I told him I’d think about it.

In my earnest way, I took the issue to the head of the composition program, a handsome forty-something professor with whom my friends and I were in love. He was a liberal and no doubt passionately against the war. He was also a stickler for clear, concise writing. Everyone feared his classes on the poets John Donne and George Herbert, because we knew he’d eviscerate our papers. In his office, I explained Jim’s dilemma and mine. Was there a way I could justify a C? Was there any alternative to failing? The professor ‘s response was curtly unequivocal.  “What do grades mean if you hand him a C? He’s earned an F. You have no choice.”

This remembrance has no neat conclusion. I never saw or heard from Jim again, although I think of him often and wonder what happened to him.

I understand my professor’s arguments. I don’t know if Jim was telling the truth, either about the fragging or losing his financial aid. I know I passed Jim along to a 102 instructor, who’d face the same decision I had. I still have no idea what the right thing to do was. I gave Jim a C.

Because He Lives

I have some tapes from Masses at St. Cecilia’s, my old church. Tonight I felt like hearing a random sermon from Father Dan. I guess you can’t say picking out an Easter Mass qualifies as random, exactly, but let’s say the choice was relatively unpremeditated.


photo by Ted Henry

photo by Ted Henry

The words not only reverberate all around Father Dan and our loss of him, but also the recent news events in Charlottesville and its ramifications. You may not agree with Father Dan’s take, but there’s no doubt what he says here would also be his take today. Let me know how it strikes you.

There was also, by the way, a good deal of laughter during the sermon. As when, for example, he assures the kids he’s about to baptize that he’s not going to hold them under water.

Explanatory notes. As an Easter Mass (2008, to be exact), baptisms were the order of the day, and so Father Dan at times seems to be addressing the four children about to be baptized. The readings for the day were Acts 10:34-43, Colossians 3:1-4, and John 20:1-8.


I was thinking about how much we talk about rising from the dead. I think sometimes it’s important to stop and say, “What is ‘dead’?”  Is “dead” only when the breath of our body has stopped, and the heart stops beating, and the brain stops functioning? Or is “dead” when change is not going on anymore, when we’re stuck, when we have no more forward motion?

And I was thinking that the kind of death that Jesus endured gave meaning to all of his life. If his life had been nothing but coming down and healing people and walking on water and multiplying loaves and fishes and then ascending into heaven, it would have been a story that meant nothing to us. We couldn’t relate to it. It doesn’t connect, because our lives are a struggle. Our lives have difficulties. Our world has all kinds of ugly in it. There’s all kinds of violence. There’s all kinds of hatred. There’s all kinds of difficulties, even with things that are natural, whether it be floods or storms or snow or ice or whatever it is. There are so many difficult things. It’s like an obstacle course.

When Jesus comes, he comes not to say, “I’m going to pull you out of that obstacle course.” But rather, he says, “I am going to show you the way through it, so that every struggle, every suffering, every difficulty that you go through is going to have a meaning now, because it’s all leading to this eternal life.” And because he lives, we see him coming to a way of life. He came though all the difficulties, including death and then his resurrection.

I think this is such an interesting resurrection story, as you think about him in the tomb. The cloth that was on his head, he folded it up separately. And I thought, when I rise from the dead, I’m not going to fold up the cloth. But I think I would also be thinking, “What am I going to wear?” All those things—those are the things that keep us dead. We worry about all this stuff that’s earthly. Our minds are held captive to the struggles of life. Our minds are not allowed to fly free.

The second reading today has such a challenge for all of us. It says, “Seek what is above,” where Jesus is seated at the right hand of the Father. Think of what is above, not what is here on earth.  Die to yourself, and let your life that is hidden with God come to light.

Our life is going to have struggles. We have to face our children and tell them. That’s what baptism means. Baptism means we go down into the waters of death. In a sense, think about someone holding you under water. The longer they hold you under water, pretty soon you forget about everything else. You don’t care whether you made your bed this morning. You don’t care whether your clothes are clean. You don’t care whether you did your homework. All you want is AIR! Give me air! That’s what you want.

We’re not going to do that! We’re going to pour water over the top of your head. That water symbolizes that going down and forgetting about everything, dying to the self that would keep us focusing on the things below, the things that would get us lost in our meanness, lost in our violence, lost in our greed, lost in all that is negative. Baptism challenges us to breathe in that spirit that focuses our minds on what is above, so that we may have a positive hope that our God loves us, that our Savior has risen to show that this struggle that we’re going though is only temporary, and that we will be freed to experience the new life.

And I think coming to that understanding means that our life is not going to be a joy binge and God’s not going to solve all of our problems along the way. That’s not why we come to church. We don’t come to church so that God will fix everything today, take away all of our diseases, take away all of our struggles, make us never die. It’s not going to happen. We come to church to find the guidance of one who knew what life was about, lived that life fully, lived that life in the face of all that would attack him, and then in the midst of it, changed the lives of all who would follow him.

And then, his followers! Even more powerful to me sometimes than Jesus rising from the dead is that people believed he rose from the dead so much that they gave up everything to follow him. They gave up all their wealth. They gave up their homes. Their whole lives became focused on building a world of love. They put aside all of their weapons. They no longer could choose violence in their life. Their response to violence from now on was love. Their response to meanness was forgiveness. Their response to everything was, “I will love until I die, like my Savior loved until he died. I will keep on loving, and you can’t make me stop.”

When I was a kid, I had lots of older brothers and sisters, and they’d tease me by saying things like this: “Don’t you laugh. Don’t you smile. Don’t you let me see those teeth.” Of course, I would always laugh and smile. At last I swore I would come to the point where I would never have to do that.  They couldn’t make me do those things, and they can’t. They would tickle me, and I came to the point where I no longer am ticklish.

You have to play a game with it! You go out in the world, and you say, “Nobody can make me stop loving! Nobody can make me act ugly. No matter how ugly they act, I’m not going to act ugly. Nobody can make me mean or nasty, because no matter what they do, I can do better, because I have a Savior who lives in me who shows me another way, a better way.  And even if no one goes with me, still, I will follow Him.” It is that Savior whom we choose.

It’s not always going to feel good. But we have these Easter moments. Some of them just happen to us. So it’s exciting to have four children to baptize this morning. That is lovely. Last night it was so exciting to have eight adults to baptize and a couple to bring into the church. That is lovely. That is an Easter moment. There are moments when suddenly we find out we have a healing or somebody we love has a healing. Easter moments call us above life.

The good news is that we’re called to keep sharing those good moments, not to get lost in the negative. We have a world that is so bent on the negative! A world that focuses on what’s wrong with people, what’s wrong with our country, what’s wrong with the politicians, what’s wrong with the Church, and all of it’s true. All of those things are wrong, but it doesn’t mean that we have to dwell there. We have died to that. We’re challenged to rise above, so we can bring the people and the country and the Church above, so we can bring them to a life that is filled with Easter moments–Easter moments that don’t depend on whether I suffer or not, Easter moments that know for certain that because he lives, I can face tomorrow. Because he lives, all fear is gone. Because he lives, life is worth the living all the time.


You may recognize these last lines as coming from the old hymn “Because He Lives,” which the choir immediately broke into at the sermon’s close. You can find all the lyrics here;  the last verse goes like this:

And then one day
I’ll cross the river
I’ll fight life’s final war with pain
And then as death
Gives way to victory
I’ll see the lights
Of glory and
I’ll know He lives

This Bears Repeating

Donald Trump’s election – and Hillary Clinton’s defeat – was about gender, race and decades of sexist, anti-Hillary hate: Kathy Ewing (Opinion)

Clinton gets assist from LeBron, J.R.  CLINTON  Democrat returns to Cleveland in push for votes in final stretch  from A1
Hillary speaks at the Hillary Clinton and LeBron James get out the vote rally at Cleveland Public Hall Sunday, November 6, 2016, in Cleveland. (David Petkiewicz/
Kathy Ewing is an author and teaches Latin at Cleveland State University (Kathy Ewing)

CLEVELAND HEIGHTS — Throughout the election season, I’ve enjoyed watching Amy Walter of the Cook Political Report, who appeared throughout PBS-TV coverage of the presidential debates and at least once a week on the PBS Newshour to provide background on the campaign. She’s articulate, frank, and good-humored. As so often happens, though, I never wrote her a fan letter. Instead, I’m moved to write because of a particular, profound disagreement with her and other pundits.

As the presidential election results between Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton came in, Walter asserted, with the unassailable confidence of a person with numbers at her finger tips, that this election was about “populism” and not about racism and sexism.

The exit polls, she said, were showing that Clinton “underperformed” Barack Obama with minorities and with women, who, though they supported Clinton in large numbers, did not “come out for her” as expected.

Some African-Americans and Latinos even voted for Trump.

Therefore, according to Walter (and David Brooks as well), the race was about economic and social issues, not race or gender.

Numbers really can lie.

Consider these facts: At Trump rallies people shouted, “Trump That Bitch.” They screamed the “n” word and “Sieg Heil!” They yelled “Kill her!” They actually yelled, “Kill her!” and no one interrupted them or left the rally in protest.

They all stayed and listened as Trump disparaged Clinton’s looks and her “stamina,” as he insulted other women and egged the crowd on.

But these recent phenomena are only part of the story. For three decades, people have criticized Hillary Clinton, sometimes with good reason, but often for ridiculous and sexist ones: She wears a headband. She wears glasses. She’s old and wrinkled. She looks like she’s had a face lift. She dyes her hair. She’s shrill. She yells too much. She’s a lesbian and a shrew. She’s pushy. She’s elitist. She’s weak and also brazenly ambitious. She dresses funny. She killed Vince Foster.

Much of the current dislike of Clinton is founded on longstanding sexist arguments and attitudes.

Donald Trump said Wednesday he was shocked to see Hillary Clinton’s latest hairdo, calling it “massive.”

To assert now that none of this relentless vitriol has had any effect on the electorate is foolish.

People voted for a man who literally made his political career by asserting the Big Lie that President Barack Obama wasn’t born in the United States. He courted racists by undermining the legitimacy of America’s first African-American president. The Klan has praised Donald Trump, and David Duke is rejoicing today.

As a voter, I would always, automatically, reject a candidate supported by the KKK.

I would never vote for a person who has groped women, called them “bitches” or worse, and made fun of their looks, or for a candidate who has disparaged Mexicans, Arab-Americans, African-Americans, and other groups.

I would not vote for a candidate who advocated the execution of young black men accused of rape in New York City and recently again insisted on their guilt long after they were exonerated. I would always deliberately distance myself from such a candidate.

That so many other Americans made a different choice means that they feel different about gender and race issues than I do. They either embrace racist and sexist language and ideas, or they’re subliminally accepting of them. Calling names and hurling accusations are not helpful, but neither is avoiding painful truths. Racism and sexism underlie Donald Trump’s life and candidacy, and Americans elected him president.

Kathy Ewing, author of “Missing: Coming to Terms with a Borderline Mother,” teaches Latin at Cleveland State University.


Father Dan’s Funeral Sermon

Father Paul

Father Paul

When I mention that Father Dan wrote the sermon for his own funeral Mass, people are sometimes taken aback–people, that is, who didn’t know him. “Wouldn’t somebody else have liked to say something?” one of them asked me, implying that Father Dan was presumptuous or egotistical. Well, someone else did speak: his friend Father Paul Rosing’s remarks were beautiful and funny, as were his brother Father Bob Begin’s. But the one person everyone ached to hear from was Father Dan himself. He met our need, as he did so often during life.

Father Bob

Father Bob

When Father Bob stepped to the lectern, he pulled out a folder (about 29:45) and said, “He did write it out for me,” and everyone laughed. Bob first said a few words of his own and ended with a moving reflection, but in between, he read the sermon that Dan himself had written last summer, when he was diagnosed with esophageal cancer.




             Since my ordination, it has always been my duty and my privilege to preach family funerals. So much so, that family members have been particularly nice to me because they were afraid I would get the last word in if they met their demise before me. Consequently, I prepared this, trusting that I could depend on someone to read it as my funeral sermon. Then they can go on with their own comments, and I will be at peace.

            The author of the Book of Wisdom speaks so confidently of an afterlife in today’s reading, long before Jesus came and long before most of his contemporaries knew there was something more after this life. I suspect he or she was a keen observer of nature and saw beyond the present to the past and the future.

            Where we came from–the miracle of life’s beginning–is maybe the most profound miracle of all. Think of it! Two gametes or half-cells come together in quite a violent collision, and an impenetrable wall surrounds them. Then both die as gametes and become a one-celled human. That dies and becomes two-celled; two become four, four become eight, eight sixteen. Each moment something dies, each moment something is new, and each moment somebody remains the same. Everything that will ever be in us other than food, water, and time (and the many parts and pieces that doctors implant) is in our life at each stage. Each of us can look at every stage of life and say, “That is me.”

            From conception, we are programmed to be something that none of us will ever see on earth! Going back to that very first stage, it must be like heaven on earth! In those early stages, the womb must be a very beautiful place and plenty big. Floating with no pressure on any part of the body in this lovely personal lake, we don’t even have to breathe. Mom can be hungry or thirsty, but we will have what we need. The temperature is always perfect! No one to bother us, because we are the only creature in the world.

            Then it starts to get a little tight, and the head finds its way into the birth canal. When the labor begins, the constant pressure on the little creature’s head that never before felt pressure must be interpreted as dying, which lasts for varying amounts of time. The head presents itself, the baby comes out, and, with that first breath, it dies as a water creature and begins life as a land creature. Its pond now gone, air surrounds and supports this new stage of life, and the journey continues. Each moment something dies, each moment something is new, and each moment somebody answers to the same name.

            Let your mind wander back over those stages of life. It is clear how in each of them we have our own treasures that we can’t imagine living without and patterns of life that we consider essential for happiness. At each stage, we have to let go of things, like the bottle, the binky, the dolly, people we love, and so on. Experiences like being fed, carried, and supported have to give way to new experiences of independence. Often these stages of total dependence come back as an unwelcome guest to minds accustomed to freedom. With each stage, dying gives way to a new stage, while we feel very much the same.

            I believe death is a new stage with a profound transformation into a new way of being . . .what we were programmed to be from the start. As the first breath marks our death as a water creature and our birth as an earth creature, so our last breath marks our death as a corporeal creature and our birth as a spiritual creature. As air sustained us on earth, perhaps grace and light sustain us in our final form. I will let you know as soon as I find out.

            This process, though terrifying in some ways and certainly difficult in many ways, also borders on the thrill of the possibility of what is coming. Like our first time leaving home, getting married, getting ordained, or doing anything that demands a letting go of the past and an embracing of the future, this process demands fear, doubt, questions, and hesitations. There is also the dream of potential beyond our imagining, which calls us forth to this Creator who is leading us to fulfillment and entrance to the eternal life ordained for us in love from the beginning.

            Briefly, I would like to say in my own life’s journey, I have been blessed beyond imagining. Born into a huge family filled with love and with a mother filled with wisdom and unconditional love, I was surrounded by people of every age in just about every kind of circumstance available—good and bad. I learned much about the world I entered right in the confines of my own home. Our faith as a family was one that was strong, and that belief bonded us together.

            My forty-one years as a priest helped me to continue to build and extend this family, as others invited me to be intimately involved in their families. They truly have become my family, too, from various races and cultures and ways of life. Generations of joys and struggles and victories, dreams and fears, fill my head with stories and bring me joy.

            The privilege of sharing my parenting skills with my sons and my daughter, shared with their biological parents and families, has enriched my life. Grandchildren are a gift that needs no explanation for those who have them. Who would have guessed that as a priest I might have such a privilege?

            Each of my assignments has filled my life with not only parishioners, but friends and more extended family, who have made my journey what it is.

            As I become whatever I become, I take all of this with me, and my heart will stay bonded with you until we meet again. I part with only gratitude, as I say, “Thank God, thank you, and I will love you. Please love one another as I have loved you!”




Moving Mountains

St. Cecilia, Cleveland

St. Cecilia, Cleveland

Because Father Dan wasn’t the formal celebrant on St. Cecilia’s last day, he couldn’t deliver the homily. That’s a rule. According to canon law, the Bishop says the last Mass and gives the homily.

Father Dan was leaving his neighborhood, his life, and his job of over 30 years. He, like us, was losing his community. He felt sometimes that the Church was telling him that his efforts in the city had been worthless, vain, something to toss aside. He had put on a good face for all of us, but I heard later from friends and family that he was so depressed they were worried about him. “It was worse for him than facing his death,” his sister Donna told me.

No doubt at that final Mass he felt bereaved and angry. This was the end, and he had no choice. On Sunday, April 25, 2010, he was entitled to only a short statement at the end of Mass. This is a transcription of his remarks (which you can watch here).


Let me tell you something I’ve noticed about my opinions. (Pause. Raised eyebrows. Laughter from the congregation.) I had a friend, Jerry, a brother really, who lived out in Las Vegas. I was raising kids here, and I brought them out there to stay at his house where they’d see a family working together. A fine gentleman, he was fun to be with and healthy and had all kinds of good things going for him. (Father Dan leaned forward and stage whispered conspiratorially.) He was a Republican. I said, “Jerry, how can you be such a fine human being and be so messed up politically?” And he said, “I was going to ask you the same thing!”

Along the line, I’ve noticed that the authors who write the things I believe in are the smartest authors in the world. The greatest artists paint the things I like. It’s so easy to get caught up in our own opinion. Sometimes in time, working together, we can see what was the right decision. Sometimes we can’t. Our life is a process of moving on. We are called as Christians and we are called as Catholics to be a pilgrim people. A pilgrim people, we’re called to build a world that is worthwhile, and that world is everywhere. That world is in your place of employment. That world is in your school, in your home, in your neighborhood, in your community, and then we need to look a little farther out, because the Word has to be brought there, too.

As you go forward from here today, I know you’re sad. I’m sad, too.  But don’t embarrass me by being a Sunday-go-to-meetin’, sit-in-the-back-of-the-church, don’t-bother-me-because-I’m-hurt kind of Catholic. We don’t need those! The world needs, I need, we all need for you to go out there and join parish councils, join liturgy committees, and look out for the social justice activities going on. Don’t forget this neighborhood. Don’t forget the plight of the people who are suffering from so many things. Yesterday they marched from here to Luke Easter Park praying for peace, for justice, for empowerment. We can make a difference wherever we go.

Go. Go with a spirit of joy. Go with the Spirit in your heart. Go with the belief that we are seeds just waiting for potential to be unlocked. Grow and bloom where you are planted. Grow by nourishing yourself with the sacrament of Eucharist. Go with the strength of the Word. Go with the power of all you are and all you know, and go with the power of all we have been for each other. As we go forward, as we grow, we can trust that our God is going with us.

Our life is too short to be bothered with resentment, with negativity, with any of that kind of stuff. Shake the dust. Shake, shake, shake it off!

And if there’s anything you’ve learned from me, I hope you’ve learned that in all circumstances we are called to be the Christians we are, and we are all ambassadors, and where we go we bring healing. We bring His Word, and when they see us, they ought to see Him.

I’ve picked the songs for today, so they would be my real sermon. Take those songs home. Sing them. Sing them at the top of your voice. Listen to those words. The words will speak a message to you of what we need to do and where we need to go and how we need to get there.

There’s one other song I always like.


Father Dan broke into song. The choir and congregation joined in, and so did JT’s saxophone. The clapping started, and the people rose. This was the song.


Now, Lord, don’t move my mountain

But give me the strength to climb

And, Lord, don’t take away my stumbling blocks

But lead me all around


Oh Lord, you don’t have to move the mountain

But give me the strength to climb

And, Lord, don’t take away my stumbling blocks

But lead me all around


Lord, I don’t bother nobody

I try to treat everybody the same

But every time I turn my back

They scandalize my name


But, oh, Jesus, you don’t have to move my mountain

But give me the strength to climb

And, Lord, don’t take away my stumbling blocks

But lead me all around


Now when my folks would slay me

 These things they will try to do

But, Lord, don’t touch ’em

But within their heart

Make ’em give their life to you


Oh, Master, you don’t have to move my mountain

But give me the strength to climb

And, Lord, don’t take away my stumbling blocks

But lead me all around

If Nothing Ever Changed . . .

Google proved a goldmine of information for Father Dan’s homilies. On Epiphany, he would explain the Star of Bethlehem this way: the astronomical conjunction of planets in about 6 BCE lined up in Pisces, a constellation special to the Hebrews, sparking the Magi’s trip to the manger. Discussing the Good Samaritan, he’d provide a lengthy historical explanation of the enmity between the Jews and Samaritans. I always figured Google was behind his frequent references to caterpillars, butterflies, and imaginal discs, but it turns out he heard about them from his sister Laura.

Laura remembers describing this process to her brother while walking the Towpath Trail a few years ago, one of his favorite hikes. “He looked it up online later. He always double-checked whatever you told him,” she says drily. The metamorphosis of caterpillars into butterflies was one of Father Dan’s favorite metaphors, and it frequently came up in eulogies. Someone who heard one of these gave Father Dan a chrysalis, so he could observe the whole process.

Everyone knows that caterpillars transform into butterflies, but you may not know that the caterpillar digests itself into a goopy mess first, by exuding enzymes to dissolve its tissues. Resilient cells hiding in that mess grow into adult butterfly body parts. These cells, called imaginal discs, form the eyes, legs, wings, and all the other structures a butterfly needs. A perfect analogy for death and resurrection.

“At every moment,” Father Dan would say at funerals, “something dies, something changes, and something stays the same.”

Last summer, when Father Dan told me about his cancer and the tough times ahead of him, he found comfort in this image. The caterpillar goes away. It dies. A butterfly arises in its place. He described the whole process to me once again. It’s a dramatic illustration of death, transformation, and hope.

no butterfliesSoon after this conversation, I went to Nashville for my daughter’s wedding and in a little gift shop found this tiny framed quotation: “If nothing ever changed,” it says, “there would be no butterflies.” Wiping away tears, I bought it, packed it in my suitcase, and stopped in at Father Dan’s when I returned to Cleveland.

He was just pulling in at his rectory and asked me to help carry some bags into the house for him. They were light, but he had not eaten much in weeks and was already suffering the effects of chemo. He looked at my gift, smiled, and said, “Ah. That’s great.” Then he set it on a table and changed the subject. Giving Father Dan gifts was never very satisfying. He liked reading Atticus, the novel by Ron Hansen I’d given him years before, but we never got around to talking about the great ending, evocative of the Prodigal Son story, which was why I wanted him to read it in the first place. When I gave him a cd of Respighi’s Ancient Airs and Dances, I hoped he’d listen as he drove to his home in West Salem, but then learned he didn’t have a cd player in his car. I never heard what he thought of the music. Material items, even cds of great music, were not what he wanted.

We sat in his living room for awhile talking. He gestured to his dining room table piled high with food and books and comfortable clothes and every other manner of gift. After learning about his illness, everyone wanted to give him something. “What do I do with all that stuff?” he asked. “I can’t even sort through it. All I can do right now is sit in this recliner and nap.”

“I knew you wouldn’t want my little thing,” I said. “Too bad. I wanted to give it to you.” In the months following, I often thought of it sitting in his living room, and it reminded me of the hope of rebirth. My friend Anita, who works at St. Mary, rescued it from the rectory the other day and returned it to me. It was always really more a gift for me than for him, as he could have told me a year ago.