Hillsdale, My Bedford Falls

When freshman year arrives, and new students see the thriving metropolis of Hillsdale, we begin to sound a lot like George Bailey:

We are fully intent on shaking the dust from this crummy little town off our feet to see the world. Our only excuse for being here was the college, and, quite frankly, the town was the only downside of the college.

Hillsdale was a rickety old place. Abandoned warehouses, nonfunctioning railroad tracks, and an antiquated downtown. One passing through would not give it a second glance—mainly because the only reason one sees Hillsdale is if they are passing through. It’s like Oklahoma. It seems everyone here has somewhere else they need to get to. And the sooner the better.

But when one is sentenced to four years in this old town, one begins to see things. There are little houses which can barely stand, yet they boast beautiful front porches which testify to a time when the porch was the threshold of the home, the place where drinks and conversations were had, and cigars were enjoyed on a summer night.

There are old bookstores, churches, and coffee shops; hole-in-the-wall diners, a post office, and a courthouse; murals, ice cream shops, and parks. Lampposts line the main drag. So do people. Friendly people. People who will say hello and stop to chat. Just because.

Maybe Hillsdale is old and drab. But I love her. It is my favorite place in the world. And when I return to visit, I will greet her like an old friend—like George Bailey greeted Bedford Falls when he was given a second chance at life:

Thank you, Hillsdale. You have been my Bedford Falls.

It only took me four years to realize it.

A Pilgrim's Prayer: A Letter to St. Anthony's Parish

The following was delivered on April 28, 2013, before the St. Anthony's Lifeteen youth group in Hillsdale, Michigan. After four years, it was my final message to the group. 

My Dear Friends,

We have tried to teach you many things these last four years.

Men, we have tried to teach you to be men. We have never taught you to be boring and nice. The world has enough people who are boring and nice. We have taught you to be passionate men, lovers and fighters, poets and warriors. We have taught you to pray on your knees not your butts, work with you hands not only your mind, and climb trees. After all, Zaccheaus could only see the Lord from a tree.

Women, we have tried to show you beauty. It was an easy job: simply holding up mirrors. Yet these mirrors the world tried to smash again and again. And when we ran out of mirrors, we brought you before the Mirror of the Monstrance, where true beauty and dignity is always restored.

It was before this Mirror, this Sacrament, that a young lady prayed five years ago. Her name, Danielle. She prayed that when the man she was to marry came along, he would give her a pink rose, and by that she would know this was God’s will. Four years later she began dating a boy named Eric. After a year of dating, he knelt to propose to her before that same Sacrament. And at the foot of that Sacrament stood a bouquet of pink roses. You see, ladies, Our Lord is a pleasant and patient lover.

My friends, in these years together, we have not so much sought to make you more holy. Instead, we have sought to make you more human. And in the process, you have made me more human. I thought I was God’s gift to you. Nay, you were God’s greatest grace to me. In the beauty and holiness of this parish, you have taught me love—a love undying.

When I think of a love like yours, I am always reminded of one of my favorite stories.  It is entitled “The Nightingale and the Rose.” In this story, a young boy who loves philosophy and books falls in love with a girl. Yet in order to woo her, he must acquire a red rose. In his distress, he cannot find one, and begins to cry. A small Nightingale overhears his weeping, and, so moved by his love, she searches and searches for a red rose. She finds white and yellow roses, but all the red roses have been nipped by the winter cold. There is only one remedy, she is told by the rose-tree. If she wants a rose, she must “build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it in her own hearts blood.” The Nightingale wanted so very badly to give the boy a rose, and replies “Death is a great price to pay for a red rose… Yet love is better than life…” and she accepts her fate.

The following is an excerpt after her fiat:

'Be happy,' cried the Nightingale [to the boy], 'be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense.'...

And when the Moon shone in the heavens, the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her…

But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 'Press closer, little Nightingale,' cried the Tree, 'or the Day will come before the rose is finished.'

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.

And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.

And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 'Press closer, little Nightingale,' cried the Tree, 'or the Day will come before the rose is finished.'

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.

And the marvelous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.

But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.

Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.

'Look, look!' cried the Tree, 'the rose is finished now;' but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.

And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.

“Why, what a wonderful piece of luck! he cried; 'here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name;' and he leaned down and plucked it.

Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with the rose in his hand.

The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.

'You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose,' cried the Student. Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you.'

But the girl frowned.

'I am afraid it will not go with my dress,' she answered; 'and, besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers.'

'Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,' said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.

'Ungrateful!' said the girl. 'I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew has;' and she got up from her chair and went into the house.

'What a silly thing Love is,' said the Student as he walked away. 'It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics.'

So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.

My dear friends, St. Anthony’s Parish has been for me that Nightingale, that rose. And though the world and other students may not see her beauty, and throw it into the gutter, though they may abandon her love for books and her passion for prudery, it is only because they are blind and looking for something more sophisticated, more flashy, more expensive. The fools cannot see the heaven right in front of them, the crimson rose in the tabernacle of this sacred parish.

And so, my dear friends, if you remember nothing else from my four years here, remember this alone: only love makes us more human. Everything else is quaint. Love is wiser than philosophy, mightier than power, wealthier than gold. Love reminds us that we are made for more, that this is not our home. Love reminds us that we are pilgrims, that our hearts search restlessly, and find no rest till they rest in Thee.

St. Anthony’s has not been my home. She has never been my home. She could never be my home. St. Anthony’s was my viaticum, my food for the journey. She has fed me and formed me and bid me be well. She has taught me to love, and love simply.

Love simply, dear friends. And when you forget how, do as I often did these last four years. Look to the image of Our Lady that rests in St. Anthony’s courtyard—for in all of Italy and Spain and America, I have not yet found a more beautiful image. She taught me to love her son, and thus every time I passed her, I placed a kiss with my hand upon her feet. Stay close to your mother, dear friends. She is the rose which blossomed in the Nightingale’s blood. She will teach us love. She will lead us home. Amen.

Why I Sleep in Church

It happens time and time again. I go in for my Holy Hour before the Blessed Sacrament. I usually bring far too many books and journals for a mere 60-minute slot. I have high expectations—first, I’ll do morning prayer, then pray a rosary, then read the Gospel, then journal, then… five minutes into it all, my eyes get heavy, my body relaxes, and the nodding off begins for the next 55 minutes. And by the end of it all, I feel like I have wasted my time, been rude to my Divine Guest, ignored the King of Kings, and instead of receiving graces, indulged in the most egregious case of sloth.

            Then, one night, while reading Story of a Soul by St. Therese (not in adoration, of course), I read the following:

The fact that I often fall asleep during meditation, or while making my thanksgiving, should appall me. Well, I am not appalled; I bear in mind that little children are just as pleasing to their parents asleep as awake; that doctors put patients to sleep while they perform operations, and that after all, "the Lord knows our frame. He remembers that we are dust."

Bam. Justification. If St. Therese (that is, Doctor of the Church St. Therese) can fall asleep in meditation, why can’t I? In fact, it’s probably a sign of supreme holiness… or something…

            And while St. Therese should not be used for prideful justifications of sloth, she does articulate a very important point of the spiritual life: meditation and contemplation are not meant to be work or effort, they are not meant to be active. Rather, our greatest blessings and graces come when we are receptive—after all, Our Lady’s fiat was the epitome of receptivity, and with it she received the King of the Universe in her womb.

            Josef Pieper, in his must-read Leisure: The Basis of Culture, writes:

Leisure is not the attitude of one who intervenes, but of the one who opens himself; not of someone who seizes but of one who lets go, who lets himself go, and go under, almost as someone who falls asleep must let himself go… The surge of new life that flows out to us when we give ourselves to the contemplation of a blossoming rose, a sleeping child, or of a divine mystery—is this not the surge of life that comes from deep, dreamless sleep?... the greatest, most blessed insights, the kind that could never be tracked down, come to us above all in the time of leisure.

It is only in leisure, in stillness, that we recognize beauty, that we hail mystery, that we see and know. This stillness requires no effort, no words. Just silence and openness. Why is it that lovers so easily fall asleep in each others’ arms? Because there everything seems safe, everything is still. No words are necessary. There is only a letting go, a fiat.

            There was a man who would enter St. John Vianney’s church in Ars, France, every day. He would sit and look at Our Lord in the Blessed Sacrament for nearly an hour each time he came. He would say nothing, write nothing, read nothing. One day, John Vianney asked him, “What do you say to Our Lord when you sit here day after day?” The humble farmer replied, “I say nothing. I look at Him, He looks at me. That is enough.”

            Thus resting in the Lord is a sign of inner peace, the peace of a lover resting in the arms of her beloved. Only in this rest do we truly reach the heights of contemplation. Only in being still do we know that He is God!

 Note: I am not advocating sleeping during Mass. The Sacrifice of the Mass and private meditation serve two different purposes in the spiritual life. But more on that to come, perhaps, in future posts.