Last October, we were in the Fiumicino Airport in Rome waiting to board our flight for home. Our time in Rome was the result of a cancelled flight, and the unexpected gift meant 24 hours in the Eternal City—St. Peter’s Square, a dinner in Piazza Navona, the Trevi Fountain at midnight, and an Aperol Spritz on a rooftop bar with a nighttime view of the city. So when I saw this watch in the Swatch store at the airport, it was meant to be. Now, whenever I wear it, I am reminded of that magical 24 hours in Rome.
Thursday, August 10, 2023
Tuesday, August 8, 2023
The Baby at Mass
Dear God,
I’m sorry for my mind wandering during Mass.Instead of focusing on the liturgy, my focus was on the little three-month-old baby asleep on his grandfather’s shoulder. They were sitting directly in front of us, and I watched the baby’s chest rise and fall with the sweet sleep of an innocent. And my mind wandered …
to the memory of nursing our son in the darkness before dawn, those times some of the most peaceful of my life;
to the feel of a baby’s breath when you hold them close;
to a baby’s trusting look when I bathed him or changed his diaper;
and to the wonder of our three babies, now grown, healthy and strong.
And then the little baby in front of me at Mass stirred, lifted his head, and looked directly at me. He smiled. When his grandfather gently rocked and patted his back, the baby put his head down and fell back asleep. And my mind wandered …
to babies living in poverty and squalor;
to babies who are sick and battling diseases that should not be part of a baby’s world;
to babies who are unloved and unwanted;
and to babies who are denied life.
So, God, I was not as attentive during Mass as I should have been. I was distracted, and I allowed my mind to wander. But God, I can’t help feeling you know my heart and that you recognized my wayward thoughts as prayers ...
for babies yesterday, today, and tomorrow;
for babies loved and unloved;
for babies yet unborn;
and for the wonder and awe of Creation and the Gift of Life.
Sunday, August 6, 2023
Speak to Me Sunday: The Seven Acts of Mercy
Many of you know of my love for Caravaggio. During a free afternoon in Naples last October, a small group of us visited one of Caravaggio’s most famous paintings, Le sette opere di Misericordia (The Seven Acts of Mercy).
Amazingly, we were the only ones present, and standing in
front of this masterpiece I quietly read aloud from my notes as we immersed
ourselves into the drama of the painting.
A little art appreciation on a Sunday afternoon does the soul good (that is my theory, anyway) so here are my notes. As you read, it is helpful to refer to the photo; you can even continue the art lesson with the Details to Note.
The Seven Acts of Mercy (refer to the image below)
1. Bury the
Dead
In the center background, two men carry a dead man (only his
feet are visible). A man is holding a candle (the only light source) and based
on his garments he is a priest. The man in the dark colored shirt is believed
to be the grave digger.
2. Shelter the
Homeless
Third from left, a bearded man with a scallop shell on his
hat is asking for shelter. He is a pilgrim. The man directly in front of him is
the innkeeper who indicates with his finger (pointing out of the canvas) that
he has room and will offer shelter.
The scallop shell is the mark of a pilgrim and is connected
to the story of St. James the Great (a disciple of Christ). Today the Camino de
Santiago (Way of St. James) uses the scallop shell as mile markers on the
pilgrim’s path to Santiago de Compostela in Spain. Additionally, scallop shells
are often found on baptismal fonts and often used to scoop the water over the
head of those being baptized.
3. Clothe the
Naked
The fourth figure from the left is St. Martin of Tours who
is tearing his robe in half to give it to the naked beggar in the foreground.
Above the beggar’s shoulder, St. Martin’s sword appears as a slash of white as
he has just used it to slice the fabric.
The legend of St. Martin, a Roman soldier stationed in Gaul,
was that he saw a beggar as he approached the city gates. Determined to help,
he removed his military cloak and cut it in two and wrapped the beggar with one
half. That night, St. Martin had a dream in which he saw Jesus wearing the
cloak and telling the angels of the man who had shared it with him. St. Martin
believed the dream offered the message that caring for the poor is like caring
for Christ. Eventually, the cloak of St. Martin became a relic.
4. Visit the
Sick
The next portion of Caravaggio’s Seven Works of Mercy is the
hardest to see, probably due to the darkening of the canvas over time. In the
front of the painting and next to the beggar’s left arm, you will notice a
foot, indicating there is another man in this section (his face is just below
St. Martin’s sword). This is the sick man, perhaps crippled given the angle of
his foot.
Standing over the sick man is the pilgrim in a dual role
since he is painted as Christ healing the crippled man.
5. Refresh the
Thirsty
Standing between the pilgrim and the innkeeper is a wild,
bearded man drinking from a bone, the water splashing onto his face. This man
is Samson (yes, from Samson and Delilah). But this image references a different
story from Judges 15 when Samson was fighting the Philistines and used the
jawbone of a donkey to kill a thousand men. After the battle, Samson was
thirsty so God opened up the jawbone and water came out of it to revive Samson.
Admittedly, Caravaggio’s inclusion of this story was
confusing. He was meant to portray the seven mercies, or kindnesses, performed
by humans for each other, but in Samson’s case God is the one performing the
kindness.
6-7 Visit the Imprisoned, Feed the Hungry
These next two Acts of Mercy are combined into one image of
the woman breastfeeding a man in prison. While unusual in modern contexts, the
story was a familiar one of the time (Roman in origin) and occasionally
appeared in other works of art.
Details to Note:
1- Always in trouble with the
law, Caravaggio took refuge in Naples after he committed a murder in Rome
during a violent argument. It was during this exile that he painted this
masterpiece.
2- Caravaggio is known for
his chiaroscuro painting technique which uses the contrast of
light and dark for dramatic effect. His dark paintings usually contain a light
source to draw the eye to important details. In this painting, the man carrying
the candle provides the only light source, perhaps a metaphor for mercy as the
acts themselves illuminate darkness.
3- He received the commission
to depict the Seven Works of Mercy for Pio Monte della Misericordia (a
charitable organization) founded by seven noblemen of Naples in order to care
for the poor. It is still in operation today.
4- One of the most important
documents in the church’s archives is an invoice, dated 14 October 1607, for
400 ducats in payment to Caravaggio for the painting.
5- The Works of Mercy are based
on verses from the Gospel of Matthew; the only one not mentioned in Matthew is
Bury the Dead (it is referenced in the Book of Tobit where burying the dead is
mentioned as an important work of charity).
6- While the Seven Works of
Mercy are usually depicted in seven separate scenes, Caravaggio chose to
combine all seven works of mercy into one composition, which became the
church’s altarpiece.
7- The work is divided into two
parts: the top half is celestial (with angels and Mary with the Christ child
observing the action below); the bottom half is terrestrial, or the earthly
realm.
8- The angel’s hand, reaching
toward the lower figures, is a slash of light through darkness serving to
connect the two halves of the painting. The open pose of his hand is associated
with giving a blessing.
Saturday, August 5, 2023
Pink here, Pink there, Pink Everywhere
Thursday, August 3, 2023
Musing from a Golf Course in the Rain
Wednesday, August 2, 2023
Your Wednesday was better
Sunday, July 23, 2023
Speak to Me Sunday: The Man in the Fog
One morning, in the mountains of North Carolina, Joe and I went hiking. It had rained the night before, so our footsteps made no sound as we walked along a trail carpeted with sodden leaves. The air was cool, but still damp, and a thick fog, or mist, swirled around us. We could not see the path ahead.
The hike was energizing, but my mind, heart, and spirit were
tired. We had just come through a pandemic that brought the world to its knees,
and travel restrictions, mask controversy, and contentious politics only
added to the bickering, squabbling, finger pointing, and protesting, all of it
done with the righteous indignation of people serving as both judge and jury
against everyone except the person looking back in the mirror. The ensuing
consequence pitted brother against brother, friend against friend, city against
state, and people against government.
I was tired of all of it. Although the hike was quiet, I
knew once we descended the mountain I would be in the real world again. And so I
turned inward and began to pray. About nothing. About everything. I was not
even sure what I was praying about. My prayer was not neat, or eloquent, but
just words exhaled with every step as we silently climbed up and up.
Suddenly, like the parting of a curtain, a man emerged from
the fog in front of us. He was alone, carrying a backpack and a trekking pole.
We exchanged pleasantries—how are you, good weather for hiking—and then
asked if he could give us a book. I hesitated for a fraction of a second and
then said, “Sure. Are you an author?”
He was, in fact, an author. As he opened his backpack and
pulled out a book, he explained he was also a retired pastor who currently
trains and mentors pastoral leaders. I thanked him as he handed me the book,
and he said goodbye. When I turned around to see where he had gone, the fog had
already swallowed him up.
I looked down at the book. The cover featured a watercolor
drawing of a hiker, carrying a backpack and trekking pole, and at the top was
the title, Finding Your Place in the Father’s Heart.
The title alone spoke to me, and just like that I realized I
had been going about this all wrong. In trying to sift through the turmoil, in
my feeble attempts to make sense of a nonsensical world, I had turned inward
with whispered prayers and questions, my introspection swirling fog-like until,
like the mountain pathway I was hiking, I could not see the way.
But it was not my heart I needed to turn to, but my
Father’s, not so much to find answers, but to find myself.
Turning my introspection outward, I appreciated how the fog,
while preventing us from seeing the road ahead, did not impede our hike; that
the pathway revealed itself with every step I took.
And there, on top of a mountain in North Carolina, on a
remote hiking trail engulfed in fog, I recognized this as the dramatic moment
that it was. Sometimes parables and beatitudes and morals are adequate to teach
and console and show us the way, but sometimes they offer ambiguity and require
interpretation when we are simply yearning for clarity.
Sometimes we need a little drama—a thunderbolt, choirs of
angels, the temple curtain torn in two.
Or a man emerging from the fog on top of a mountain in North
Carolina.






