My Sweetie and I spent a little time in the spotlight yesterday, and frankly it left me feeling a bit uncomfortable.
The setting was Sunday Mass (celebrated on Saturday afternoon). Our son Chris had been invited “home” to preside at the liturgy, as part of our parish’s year-long celebration of its 160th anniversary. A neat idea, I thought – the pastor working to encourage vocations among his current flock … by providing some flesh-and-blood proof that priests do get called from among the families in our community.
All good, all good.
But then – as the congregation sat quietly in thanksgiving following holy communion – our pastor asked my Sweetie and me to rise and be acknowledged as the parents of the local-boy-made-good.
Probably should have seen that coming, right? Still, it caught me by surprise.
If it’s possible to stutter-as-you-stand, that’s kinda how I felt in the moment: wobbly knees, a sheepish wave, an uncertain smile. But we made it through, my Sweetie and I. We made it through, partly by thinking back to our wedding day – recalling how we’d chosen this Sunday’s gospel passage as the scripture for our own special day.
Jesus said to his disciples: “You are the salt of the earth. But if salt loses its taste, with what can it be seasoned? …You are the light of the world. A city set on a mountain cannot be hidden…”
If it was true of us then, in 1979, hopefully it’s true today: our light ought not to be hidden. So why the discomfort?
Surely, part of the reason is the nature of salt and light: These elements of everyday life are best encountered in reasonable doses. They are most effective when they don’t draw attention to themselves. No one enjoys an over-seasoned burger … or the glare of a klieg light when a candle will do. And so it is, to find yourselves to be the only ones standing in a church full of people!
But in truth, that’s not the only thing that set my heart to rumbling in the moment. Our son Chris, you see, has a brother whom we love just as dearly. A brother raised in much the same fashion as the priest. He’s now a loving husband and dad, a thoughtful and reliable professional, a skillful golfer, a truly accomplished dude. And one who finds virtually no consolation in the church I love.
That’s a mystery to me. Like St. Paul, I write these words “in weakness and fear and much trembling.” As much as I like to think I understand what God desires of me, and of us, I have to acknowledge that my own salt and light have often fallen short. The glare of the spotlight reveals some things I’d just as soon not see.
But if there’s hope for St. Paul, perhaps there’s hope for me – and so I resolve pray ever in communion with him, that my “faith might rest not on human wisdom but on the power of God.”
Let us pause now…to recall that we are in the presence of the Holy & Merciful One.
IHS
With Us Still 