Mark 1:4-11
John the baptizer appeared in the wilderness, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. And people from the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem were going out to him, and were baptized by him in the river Jordan, confessing their sins. Now John was clothed with camel's hair, with a leather belt around his waist, and he ate locusts and wild honey. He proclaimed, "The one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to stoop down and untie the thong of his sandals. I have baptized you with water; but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit."In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. And a voice came from heaven, "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased."
I would
like to revisit my sermon of last week. I talked about how important
stories are in scripture and how important they also are in our daily
lives. I also said that I would be sharing my story in 500 words or
less.
I was
born at Yocum hospital in Chariton, Iowa way back in 1949. It was a
hot summer day as I was told by my mother and I was almost born in
the basement of our house. There were six of us in the family, my
father, mother two brothers and a sister. All that are left are my
sister and me. Dad ran a farm east of town but we lived in the city
limits. We were a church going family. We went to mass at Sacred
Heart Catholic Church every Sunday and all of the holy days of
obligation. During lent we attended church services every day and
twice on Saturday.
I am
told I was kind of a sickly child although I don't remember it that
way. Whenever I get a chest x-ray they point out scarring on my left
lung from several bouts of infantile pneumonia. My dad once told me
they thought I might have had a mild case of polio as well but
he couldn't remember if it was me or my brother.
I
always looked up to my two uncles, Charles and Leo. Both were in
Maryknoll, a Catholic missionary order. I really wanted to be like
them but I was pretty sure I could not live up to that standard. As a child, I
had to go to confession a lot and since I was in and out of sin so
much, I figured my chances of becoming a priest were slim. I still
wanted to make it to heaven. The bottom rung of heaven would be just
fine.
My dad
was a farmer and my brothers and I spent a lot of time doing the
things necessary to keep a farm going. Growing up working on a farm
gave me a good work ethic and also taught me that I never wanted to
be a farmer.
When I
was sixteen I was sent to boarding school in Illinois and that was a
life altering experience. You are forced to grow up quickly at
boarding school. After boarding school I went to Loras College and
drifted away from going to church. Drifting is a good way to
describe those years. During that time my mother died in a car
accident. My mother struggled with mental illness and losing her in
an accident was hard on all of us. I traveled a lot, mostly
hitchhiking, and I guess you could say I had a lot of adventures.
By the time I was twenty one I started doing some serious soul
searching. I think that when you have a mentally ill parent you
wonder about your own mental health. That is when I went to my first
yoga class. One thing led to another and I hitchhiked to Cambridge,
Mass. and later to West Palm Beach, Florida. By that time I was living
in ashrams and I eventually ended up in India.
To be
continued......
So far
I have written 500 words and it is only a sketch of my first twenty
two years. I have forty three years to go. I didn't even mention
the time I spent in California or the summer long motorcycle trip I
took with a buddy across the US. I never mentioned the angel I saw
at the end of my bed while I was very sick in the infirmary at UNI.
What I
realized is that I just gave you the bones of my story up until the age of
twenty two and there was very little flesh on those bones. It's the
meat on the bones that make the bones stick together and it takes
time to flesh out any good story. The more I share my story and the
more you share yours the stronger our relationship will grow.
Our
bonds become stronger the more we listen to each other. The same
happens the more we listen to God.
Since
we are talking about relationships, at the very end of the gospel
reading God says, “This is my son with whom I am well pleased.”
It made me think that all too often we do not let others know how we
feel. Tonight I am going to call our children and let them know how
I feel.
I have been reading The Sacred Journey by Frederick Buechner. It is auto-biographical mixed with stories about other members of his family. Here is one of those stories:
My grandmother's jokes tended to have something medieval about them -heavy, wooden, with little art but made to do hard service. There was this preacher once, she says, preaching his sermon from his pulpit in his long black gown. It was such a hot day that he had put nothing on but the gown that morning and was as naked underneath as the day he was born. He got so wrought up over his sermon and was pounding and stomping around so hard up there that suddenly the platform gave way beneath him and he was pitched almost into the laps of his congregation with his black gown tossed up over his head. "May anyone who looks be struck blind!" he yelled out , and the whole congregation dutifully clapped their hands to their eyes with the exception of one old woman who let two fingers slip apart just enough for a chink to peer through. "I'll risk one eye," she said. My grandmother was that old woman.
People are born and they die but the stories live on.
Amen
Peace,
Fr. Fred
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