I remember reciting the phrase about mourning and weeping in this valley of tears in the Hail, Holy Queen, a prayer I said often when I was growing up, and being aware at the time of the immense suffering in the world. Perhaps it was because I was a child during World War II or because the church ta
Faith in Focus
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One Year Later
Awailing ululation echoes across the night as I trudge up the sandy hill, the Muslim call to prayer that signals the end of the day. As I crest the hill, I pause to catch my breath. The thin air at this altitude makes any form of physical exertion a daunting task. The wind blows, and a whisper of sa
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Going Home From Prison: Postlude
Today I failed that easy command of St. Paul, Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep. While inmates at the prison where I work were smiling and rejoicing, I was on the verge of tears. It happened this way. Shortly after arriving at the prison, I noticed three inmates standing with
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Collateral Damage: How One Priest Feels These Days
In my 32 years as a priest, I have been threatened by the Ku Klux Klan, have been thrown out of a ministerial association because I am a Catholic, have had fundamentalist preachers run me down by name on the radio and have had a knife pulled on me in church for a homily I gave. I have also seen one
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God in the Tangled Sheets
If marriage is a source of sacramental grace, why are we as a church so uncomfortable about sex?
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What I learned from my cat about the God who created us
I learned a lot about being from my cat Goose; I learned also something about how God regards our being, delighting in the work of his hands and the extraordinary beauty of our ordinary lives.
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Learning and Teaching
I walked across the deck of the pool at Flick Park, one of the public pools in Glenview, the embryonic suburb north of Chicago where I spent the first 18 years of my life. Little children splashed their way through the kiddie pool on my right. I was there with some friends headed for the water slide
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South Bronx Funeral
Once I finally found the street in the South Bronx for which I had been searching, I almost immediately spotted my destination, a funeral home. From my vantage point inside the car, it looked like little more than a storefront, wedged in between a bodega and an apartment building. If it weren’
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Fundamentally, It’s Love
For longer than I knew, my father’s Arabic-language Bible lay on the dining table, a thick, gold-leafed tome, warm and fragile with years of page-turning, the family’s sacred text that had sustained Dad on his long journey from Syria to America. That Bible now sits atop my own bookshelf.