When November rolled around this year, a new liturgical accent made a startling appearance in the sanctuary at my parish: A black altar banner.
I say ‘startling’, because black is a liturgical color we don’t tend to see very often in Catholic churches these days.
The ornate ironwork and richly carved hardwood panels left no doubt: This mansion had long been home to the very best that life has to offer—abundance and riches well beyond what my middle-class circumstances could ever envision.
And so I found it ironic, to say the least, that our tour guide was a Franciscan nun—a woman joyfully living out her vow of poverty at her community’s Motherhouse in Mishawaka, Indiana.
Sometimes, I find insights into God’s great mercy in the strangest of situations.
Take the Chicago Cubs, for instance.
I’m quite sure my buddy Jim had no intention of sounding like a Holy Elder when our paths crossed on the church parking lot…just as 6:30 Mass was letting out this morning.
‘Who ARE all these people?’ he grumbled, half-kiddingly. ‘And why are they getting in my way?’
‘How Big Is Your God?’ asked Paul Coutinho provocatively in his spiritual best-seller a few years ago.
And this weekend, we get an answer of sorts.
What do you think she noticed first, the woman who for 18 years had been ‘bent over, completely incapable of standing erect’? What did she see…as she straightened her spine and looked into the eyes of the One who had just cured her infirmity?
Grandson Francis and I have at least this much in common: We know when we’re surrounded by love.
Had something of a “moment” with Psalm 12 this morning.
The sanctuary provided no sanctuary last evening, and that was a most uncomfortable feeling.
Heading into the final weekend of MLB’s regular season, I figured the Cardinals would find a way to sneak into the playoffs in 2016—and make a sixth-straight appearance in the postseason.
With Us Still 