the72: Rob Goodale - Bruised, Hurting, and Dirty

Once you find your center, you are sure to win.

Allow me to illustrate to you, if you’re willing to put up with the incoherence that results from spending virtually all of your time with teenagers, a loose idea of what life is like as a first year teacher.

I staggered home last Thursday, deliriously, gloriously, triumphantly exhausted.[1] After spending the last two months alternately trying to get my students to love me and trying to convince them I didn’t give a crap what they thought of me[2], I have survived, and quite possibly—dare I say it?—thrived as an educator of 15-17 year olds.

I arrived in Salt Lake City in early August, about as far out of a cultural and topographical comfort zone as a Catholic kid from Iowa can get. I was sent westward as my placement in Echo, a graduate program that falls under the infectiously joyful umbrella of Notre Dame’s Institute for Church Life, after spending the summer on campus in what I’m pretty sure is the most rigorous academic environment in the world.[3] This preparation included a three-week crash-course in “How to Not Totally Suck at Being a Theology Teacher,”[4] as well as a variety of other theology masters-level classes scrunched into six straight weeks of basically sprinting a marathon.

This is all to say that even though I was as well prepared as humanly possible for the task of walking into a classroom full of thirty teenagers six times a day, I was still woefully unprepared for the task of walking into a classroom full of thirty teenagers six times a day.[5]

When people have asked me how life is going out here in Utah, my general response has been, “I love teaching. It is soooo hard!” The shy and the politely disinterested will offer a kind but ignorant smile. The fellow teachers offer a nod of understanding that ranges from You, too, huh? Cool. to OHMYGOSHIKNOWISNTITWONDERFULLYTERRIFYING!?!?![6]

But my favorite people are the brave, possibly-unaware-of-what-they’re-about-to-get-themselves-into souls whose eyes light up and who ask why? Because it’s not hard for the reasons you usually hear about.

Yes, lesson planning is a brain-frying, time-draining process in which you try and take everything you know about a topic and condense it down into 45 entertaining minutes. And yes, grading quizzes and tests is probably what Judas, Brutus, and Cassius are doing in the ninth circle of hell. But that’s not why teaching is hard.

Teaching is hard because it’s one of the most vulnerable things I’ve ever done, and I do it six times a day, five days a week. Teaching, especially teaching theology, is about being okay with failure[7] and unafraid to share your whole, raw self with a group of people who are desperate for that kind of human interaction, and aren’t really capable of reciprocating it. It’s an impossible balancing act, because I wasn’t just making a joke up there—I really can’t care what my students think of me even though I really do desperately want each one of them to love me.

Let me see if I can give you an example of this high wire act. I have one particularly brilliant and inquisitive student who often comes in after school to ask questions about Catholicism. Let's call him Carlos.[8]

Carlos was raised Catholic, but has reached that dangerous point of adolescent self-awareness where he has discovered that he's brilliant. With this newfound awareness, he's decided it's important to start thinking critically about his faith, which is absolutely wonderful. We've spent hours discussing Church teaching and sharing bits and pieces of each of our own faith journeys. It's great, but also incredibly time-consuming and sometimes super frustrating.

The other day, after our latest round of discussion, Carlos got up to leave, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. I exhaled, relieved that on this day I had actually been able to answer most of his questions. But as he reached the door to the hallway, he paused and turned around.

“Mr. Goodale,” he said, “would you be interested in hearing what I really think of you?”

Crap baskets. “Uh... Sure, Carlos.”

“I think you're really smart. And usually I don't think Christians are very smart. But clearly there's something going on between you and this Jesus character, and I guess I'm trying to figure out what it is.”

It took me a moment to collect myself enough to not break down crying there at my desk, but then I managed a simple, “Thanks, man. You have no idea how much that means to me. See you tomorrow,” and he left.

And he probably doesn't have any idea. And he probably never will.

I couldn't find the exact quote, but I'm almost positive that Fr. Robert Barron writes in Bridging the Great Divide that one of the hallmarks of true Christian discipleship is living your life in a way that wouldn't make sense without Christ. To have a student unintentionally quote that in his description of me basically validated my entire life, and it also perfectly encapsulates the impossible balancing act of being a teacher. Because, on the one hand, his simple observation made my year. But on the other hand, I felt like I couldn't really let him know how much I valued his opinion of me. And I'm not entirely sure why.

My man C.S. Lewis[9] has a jaw-dropping image of what being made into a saint is like. It’s sort of fun at first, and then all of a sudden a load-bearing wall gets knocked down:

Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on; you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently He starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make any sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of - throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself.[10]

For Lewis, God is basically Shang from Mulan, only instead of making a man out of you, he wants to make you a saint. And the irony is flipped: you’re already a saint. You might not know it, but He does. And he’s going to make you swing sticks around, catch fish with your bare hands, and climb poles until you realize that you were capable all along. You just had to get a little stronger… and start using the weights the right way.

In Evangelii Gaudium, Pope Francis talks about wanting a Church that is bruised, hurting, and dirty. His vision is a Church full of disciples who roll up their sleeves and get to work! And this is what I feel like I’m doing out here at a Catholic high school in the heart of Mormon country.

Teaching—at least for me—is simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying because it’s about being a saint. This is what the saints do.

I spend every day on the front lines, demonstrating the faith (to best of my limited but God-given ability) to a group of people starving for truth, goodness, and beauty. I limp home every evening bruised, hurting, and dirty, deliriously exhausted and feverishly joyful.[11] And I get up every morning ready to do it all over again. And sure, it’s only been a couple of months, but if I can hang on to even a fraction of this feeling, the feeling of being on fire with the Holy Spirit, then I am lucky enough to already have figured out, at the tender age of 23, how I am called to serve the world.
__________

[1] Most of the staggering was due to exhaustion, and not the fact that I stopped for an after-school drink with my mentor, who also happens to be my department chair. Sometimes teaching is the bomb.

[2] Both are entirely true… sorta like Jesus’ humanity and divinity. #paradox.

[3] 14 credits in six weeks. I do not wish it on my worst enemy. Actually, that’s not true. Echo is wonderful, and you should all consider applying!

[4] It was actually called “Pedagogical Theology,” but I like my name better. Hope Todd and Megan agree with me.

[5] #paradox, back again.

[6] These are the people you want to be friends with.

[7] And I mean, down in flames, crash and burn in front of real live human beings failure.

[8] Because, bad jokes be damned, Carlos was always my favorite Magic School Bus student.

[9] If you’ve never read anything else I’ve written, it ALWAYS has something to do with C.S. Lewis.

[10] That’s from Mere Christianity. If you haven’t read it, stop reading this right now and go read it. Seriously. Stop reading this footnote.

[11] Actually, now that I think about it, all joy is just a little bit feverish—it’s contagious, you know.


Rob Goodale grew up amid the cornfields of Iowa and graduated from the University of Notre Dame in 2013. During his time at ND, Rob spent two summers as a mentor-in-faith with the Notre Dame Vision program and was an RA in Keough Hall during his senior year. After spending a glorious post-grad year interning with ND Campus Ministry, he is now in his first year of Echo, a two-year graduate program, working on a masters degree in theology and teaching sophomore and junior theology at Juan Diego Catholic High School in Draper, UT. If you found his trademark combination of wit and pomp not totally insufferable, you can find more of his writing over at his blog or contact him at rgoodale@nd.edu.

the72: Michele Monk - The Faith of a Child

A few weeks ago, four girls told me that they said a rosary together at lunchtime for the victims of Ebola. Around the same time, a few guys organized a friendly card game, clearly articulating the rules to newcomers. Meanwhile, a group of eight or so developed a play to tell a familiar story and brainstormed how to find a part for all of the interested parties.

These events all sprouted organically during the span of one twenty-five minute indoor recess on a rainy day. I’m a third-grade teacher in a Catholic school, and these scenes spring up throughout my weekdays for most of the year. Though many of my teacher friends and I cringe at the excess of sentimentality found in some quotes about how rewarding our profession is, there is no denying that seeing these little ones initiate such happenings is one of the many factors that makes my job a pretty sweet gig.

In these interactions, I see my students discover their gifts and develop talents and passions. I get to witness them developing their compassionate hearts, their senses of humor, their unblinking generosity. In their games, their stories, their plays and plans, these little humans are slowly piecing together who they are and their role in the world.  

But what is my part in all of this, beyond a lucky, front-row audience member? How am I called to ministry as a teacher?

I’ve gotten pretty good at answering questions like this. My old classmates and I, (graduates of the Alliance for Catholic Education, a service/teaching program that served as an excellent foundation for a career in education), could probably nail all the key phrases and big ideas that would satisfy the eye of whoever had to read over our responses to this prompt. “In the classroom, we are called to emulate Christ the teacher in the way we interact with our students,” we’d say. And it would be totally true. “By building communities of faith in which high expectations are held, we form students not only academically, but as complete persons.” Also, totally true.

But what does that mean? I believe these things, that as a teacher I am called to be Christ to my school community and to form my students as complete persons, but how do these seemingly abstract, macro-level ideas manifest each day? I have found myself in a growing number of situations in which the best way to emulate Jesus is not exactly clear-cut. What would Jesus do when an eight year old complains to Him about the (high) odds of one’s hand skimming a booger at any given time on the reading carpet? How would Jesus confront possible thieves of sparkly pencils that deny any wrongdoing?

I ponder these dilemmas often, from the mundane to the more significant. How do I pastorally but firmly confront the students that sneakily mess around during prayer? How do I deal with the child that is struggling but does not want to be seen receiving extra help? How do I maintain my patience with students who respond to my efforts to help them understand with apathy?

I can’t examine the Gospels to see how Jesus dealt with these situations, but I am not lacking in models of faith in my life to which I might look. I kind of won the lottery when it comes to nourishing faith communities. My parents have been role models in complete selfless love. The friends I have come to know continually astound me with their deep faith and commitment to doing good in the world. These are the people who have shown me what it means to love in all kinds of circumstances, but most of all how to love in everyday circumstances.

My mom unfailingly puts others before herself, from caring for her aging parents, to pretending like she isn’t interested in the last of the leftovers so someone else can have them. My dad patiently hears me reason out every kind of dilemma, from deciding which route to take to avoid traffic to discerning which job to accept. My friends do incredible things through their jobs, but also demonstrate generosity and compassion in their smallest interactions. John consistently talks to the person he knows feels least a part of the group. Dana sends cards at the most random times, just so her friends find a nice surprise in the mail. Mary drops what she’s doing and bakes her friends their favorite dessert at the first hint of a bad day. The list goes on.

Through my relationships I witness how people serve as vessels of God’s love on the grand scale and in the humble details. In discerning my course of action day to day, these relationships that are such sweet reflections of the love of God remind me that each interaction I have with my students, from the significant to the seemingly mundane, is an opportunity.

My ministry as a teacher is to help my students find their ministry. I don’t expect for children to finish third grade and have a clear idea of how they might best answer God’s call to serve in their life, but I want them to be better prepared to do that than when they entered.

For this to occur, I often have to walk the line between showing compassion and demanding excellence. The confidence and pride that bloom on a child’s face when a seemingly impossible concept suddenly “clicks” makes finding the time to go over and over it the only choice that allows that child to see the extent of his capabilities. At the same time, when a student’s “I don’t get it” is accompanied by a blank page reflecting a complete lack of effort, I think that the more loving response is closer to something like, “I know what you’re capable of. You haven’t tried. Give it a shot, and then check in with me if you are still confused.” These moments of authentic struggle and perseverance are the ones in which students discover the depths of their strength.

The religion book that my class uses defines the Kingdom of God as “God’s love active in the world”. I want to help my students discern their role in building the kingdom by knowing their capabilities and their passions. Sometimes my role in this is gauging how much guidance they actually need to refine a skill, but often it’s as simple as not stifling their innate motivations. I’m tempted to push along a fierce pace to ensure that we “get through” all of the expected academic material. Yet taking the time to pause to have a real discussion, or just giving them the time to joke, play, dance, or pray, offers them the space to explore their gifts in a different way.

Those girls who said a rosary for Ebola victims? They decided to begin a Rosary Club, and they invited classmates to pray with them any indoor recess they feel so inclined. The budding actors and playwrights? When they told me about their project, I said, “Great, just make sure that everyone that wants to be in it can have a part.” “Oh yeah,” one of the leaders responded. “We think we asked everyone at recess, but we’re going to make an announcement at lunch just to make sure everyone feels included.”

I have students who remember the prayer intentions I mention one time, and proceed to offer them up daily. I have students who entered the year already committed to serving people with special needs, because at eight it is so crystal clear to them that these people are in need of others who will help to preserve their dignity. I had a conversation with a kindergartner one morning in which she explained to me, “ I'm not going to stop giving to the poor. I'm going to keep helping them. I don't want to un-serve Jesus.”

This is the raw material, the sweet, unhampered motivations of the children I witness. Of course occasionally they are rude, selfish, and mean. They are kids (and human). But their innate faith, their desire to help, and their impulse to show compassion are so pure.

I have been blessed with an abundance of family members and friends that demonstrate what it means to love in our messy, daily lives. In the past few years, I’ve been especially grateful for the additional relationships that I’ve encountered as a teacher. My students’ innate faith, kindness, and compassion remind me that we are each made in the image of God and are called to channel His love. Through my ministry as a teacher, I hope to help them as they determine how best to answer that call in their lives; by witnessing their example, I know with certainty that they help me understand how I might better answer that call in my own.

Michele Monk hails from Augusta, NJ. She graduated with a BA in Sociology and Spanish from the University of Notre Dame, where she was a member of the Notre Dame Folk Choir and led music service programs at the local juvenile detention center. Michele earned her Masters of Education through Notre Dame's Alliance for Catholic Education, through which she taught PreK-8th grade Spanish in Atlanta, Georgia. She currently lives in Washington, DC where she teaches third grade at a Catholic school. Michele can be contacted at michelemonk@gmail.com.

the72: Sarah Ruszkowski - Walking With

Funny how it takes me sitting on a porch in Door County, WI, overlooking the lake with my journal to be able to clearly reflect on what my ministry is.

The ministry of L’Arche is to provide homes for adults with and without disabilities, seeking to reveal and share each person’s unique gifts as a child of God. It is a wonderful place to be.

But what is my ministry as the Home Life Leader of L’Arche’s Ontario House? Interestingly (since I like to think I think about this all the time), it has taken me many drafts and versions of this post to construct an actual answer to this question. My ministry is to walk with my housemates. 

“Accompany” is the word that we use in L’Arche. It is my ministry to accompany people.

Shared life in L’Arche looks a little like this: You need new shoes, so we go to DSW and walk up and down the aisles, trying on as many pairs of black shoes without laces as possible. We hold hands as we get flu shots at CVS, and I try to bribe you to not be scared with promises of ice cream. I drink coffee as you drink tea. We pray together each night for our brothers. We stop at Target to buy notebooks and markers for our parish’s school supplies drive. We argue, laugh, and talk over each other at the dinner table. We sit together on the couch and watch Gilmore Girls. We sing the Salve Regina together to conclude compline. I listen as you explain why you are afraid to welcome the new guy. We sing Taylor Swift on the way to Costco, and you tell me about your family. I cry with you as your heart breaks.

Here is the thing. All of these things have happened. And half of these moments are with the core people I live with (the language we use for adults with intellectual and physical disabilities) and half of these are with the assistants that I live with (the language we use for those who work in L’Arche, both those who live in the house and those who live elsewhere). The beauty of my ministry is that there is often very little distinction between the two. Our community leader always says, “The fruit of our labor is relationship. Other communities of faith bake bread or farm the land. We build relationships.” My ministry in its purest form is to love and be loved by people.

My ministry as the Home Life Leader of Ontario House has two main parts. I accompany the core people, and I accompany the assistants. Accompaniment of core people means direct care and the work necessary to run a licensed group home. As an assistant, you seek to become friends with people who communicate differently and learn how to advocate with them for what they need. Part of my role is to lead us in prayer that is accessible and utilize the gifts that people bring to the table.

The desire to work with people with disabilities is how I came to L’Arche. By my junior year at Notre Dame, I began to feel called to this field. Through a class, I discovered L’Arche, a place where, quite simply, people love people. Reading about this life built around family and knowing each person as a beloved child of God, strengths and brokenness together, called to me. We take care of each other not because you have disabilities and I don’t, but because we are people. L’Arche seeks to live the Beatitudes—to create life where the poor in spirit and the meek shape us, teach us, and form us. Truly, the majority of my formation in L’Arche comes from the core people. And through this formation, my own poorness of spirit and purity of heart is called forth and fostered.

This life would not be possible without passion for who and what we are. No one teaches me that better than William*, who is more passionate than anyone I know. He loves so expressively—telling me I have the eyes of a child (a sincere compliment from this 73-year-old Cuban) and the prettiest feet in community (I remain unsure about that one). He is furious in the face of injustice and seeks to help each and every homeless person he encounters (which occurs not infrequently in DC). He yells when he is mad and belly laughs when he is happy. He prays constantly. I’m excited? Let’s pray about it. I’m crying? Let’s pray about it. As we walk together, William teaches me to live a passionate, expressive, and forgiving life. This formation is some of the most valuable that I have received here.

And Maria*? Maria teaches me, and every single person in our home, what it means to live as a beloved child of God. She has grace and poise and a constant connection to God. She is intentional with her words (a good lesson for me, who most often says exactly what I am thinking and feeling). She is so very aware of the people around her, and when they need an all-embracing hug, a hand to hold or a joke to be made. I don’t mean to sound as if I am putting her on a pedestal (okay, who am I kidding? She is one of the best people I know), but I do believe that because Maria is so pure of heart, she can easily know and hold the hearts of those around her. This awareness and gentle love has formed how I seek to enter into relationship with the other members of my home.

I could go on and on. Suffice it to say that the majority of my formation in L’Arche and the formation of the other assistants in my home comes from the core people.

This formation also comes from the traditions and structures that support us at L’Arche. We celebrate everything: birthdays, anniversaries, Valentine’s Day, 4th of July, goodbyes, you name it. We celebrate people’s birthdays by sharing with them what we know their gifts to be. Take a moment and imagine being in a room with at least 20 people, all waiting to tell you what they love about you. It is beautiful. (PS: Please do this next time you celebrate someone you love—name it. Tell them why.)

For my community members for whom words are not the way they best articulate their thoughts and feelings, we utilize all sorts of mediums for people to share what they know to be true about your giftedness. Our ministry is to reveal and rejoice in people’s belovedness. The traditions, especially those surrounding celebrations, of our 50-year-old community remind me how to do this at least once a week. Yes. We have parties at least once a week.

Similarly, when you are welcomed into the most intimate places of someone’s life--when you are helping them step into the tub, or pick out which shirt to wear as they sit naked on the bed because they can’t get to the closet themselves—the “revelation as God’s beloved” goes both ways.

I commit to Miguel every day. I am going to try my hardest to show you that. I promise to listen in between your purrs to hear what you are saying without words. I promise to try to make your coffee to your liking, even though you always want more sugar than I think is good for you. I promise to sit and scratch your back when you are sure a mosquito got you. I promise to do that because I love you and you are a beloved child of God.

In return, Miguel trusts me. What a beautiful gift it is to be trusted. He says to me, in not so many words (he speaks only Spanish and limitedly), I trust you to help me in the shower and to sit with me when I am in the hospital again and to order for me at Starbucks. I trust you, because you, Sarah, are a beloved daughter of God. In these moments of welcome into another’s vulnerability, my own belovedness is revealed.

The other part of my ministry is walking with the assistants who work in my house as well (some live in, others do not). Officially, it is my job to listen to where you are in your journey in relationship with each other and God. We work through the joys and challenges of communal life. I try to call you to grow in your role in community, and to challenge you to love yourself and those around you more completely. I get to remind people of how loved they are. Officially, there are many details to coordinate and communications to facilitate. Unofficially, you climb into my bed after a bad day or pound on my door for outfit approval as you get ready for that date. We chat over the newspaper about your dad’s health, and I follow up after your one-word check-in is “heavy."

Living together and working together and being in community together and being friends (or not) with each other can be very complicated. Accompaniment of the assistants in my home involves a lot of layers. Sometimes it means holding on to each other for dear life as we face another very serious health complication for a core person we love so much. Or it is the desperate plea for insight as we attempt to support someone through months of heightened anxiety. Sometimes it is helping you to find a church that fits who you are. And occasionally, it is realizing that L’Arche is not the right place for you and figuring out what that means.

It is my job, my ministry as the Home Life Leader of Ontario House, to walk with you through your life. And in return? I am walked with. I am trusted and I am held.

I have spent a lot of time lately reflecting on Thomas Merton’s description of everyone walking around shining like the sun. He goes on to say, “It was as if I suddenly saw the secret beauty of their hearts, the depths of their hearts where neither sin nor desire nor self-knowledge can reach, the core of their reality, the person that each one is in God’s eyes. If only they could all see themselves as they really are. If only we could see each other that way all the time.”

This is how I understand my ministry. But I am particularly blessed because that is the official statement of identity for L’Arche. “We are people, with and without developmental disabilities, sharing life in communities belonging to an International Federation. Mutual relationships and trust in God are at the heart of our journey together. We celebrate the unique value of every person and recognize our need of one another.”

That is my job description. Walk with people, love and be loved by them, and journey closer to God. Most of the time in L’Arche, this is messy, because we as people tend to be rather messy. But as our founder Jean Vanier explains, “We are simply human beings, enfolded in weakness and in hope, called together to change our world, one heart at a time.”

(*Author's Note: Names changed*)

Sarah Ruszkowski is the Home Life Leader of the L'Arche Greater Washington DC community, which she has belonged to for over three years. Sarah graduated from the University of Notre Dame in 2011 with a BA in Psychology and Theology, including a thesis on the relationship between the Church and people with disabilities. A native of Villa Park, IL, Sarah now lives in Washington DC. Sarah can be contacted at srusz17@gmail.com.

the72: Dave Gregory - Bad Religion

Earlier this year while shopping for a suitable gift for my Confirmation sponsee, I stumbled across a patch for the band “Bad Religion” in a record store, which I wound up including in my card to him. Since then, I’ve sort of taken this up as my professional mantra. I’m convinced this is what the culture of Catholicism needs: a religious imagination that is anything but tame, complacent, or nice. Catholicism, when truly lived out, as exemplified by the lives of the saints, produces people on fire. Fire! So, the following reflects upon my approach to fostering “bad” (read: not tame, complacent, or nice) religion within my students.

Save for a few bits about Chinese philosophy and the theology of C.S. Lewis, I cannot remember a single thing I ever learned in any of my high school theology classes. The irony brings me to giggle a little bit, given that I am a professional catechist.

As an undergraduate, I abandoned my biochemistry major when my required philosophy and theology courses grabbed my heart full-force. Lectures on Plato and Scripture brought me to the realization that I wanted to spend my studies focused on those things considered most impractical by 21st century standards. I simply remember thinking “Well, crap, if all this stuff about God and Jesus is true, then what else matters?” Those years of high school theology classes, though their contents escape my memory, thus proved entirely necessary, as they disposed me to seek the truth regarding the Reality that undergirds all things.

Considering my own experience of learning about Catholicism as a teenager, I have one (hopefully humble) thing in mind above all else when teaching: I take some small part in disposing my students to healthfully engage God and religion. I am planting seeds, the fruits of which I may never see. More often than not, this process of theological dialogue that disposes a class doesn’t look pretty. My approach to pedagogy of a theological nature is not warm and fuzzy. Simply put, it lacks rainbows and glitter and butterflies.

I recently watched a televised sermon in which Joel Osteen, the mega-church evangelical preacher, informed his audience of several thousand Christians that God wanted to offer them financial success and bodily well-being. This fellow strikes me as the epitome of warm and fuzzy Christianity. It literally nauseated me, making my stomach turn a little bit. I found myself wondering if Osteen had ever even read the Gospels, in which the Christ promises his followers persecution, in which God incarnate preaches an earth-shattering message of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. If I take Osteen to heart, then I make myself the center of the universe; he presents the worst form of narcissism, the kind of navel-gazing wherein not only the universe, but God Himself, cares for nothing more than my worldly success.

I constantly remind my students of Matthew 25, that passage wherein Jesus presents the clearest criteria for salvation and damnation in the entirety of the Gospels. What catches my students off-guard, and what catches me off-guard, is that those who go to Heaven do not expect to go to Heaven and that those who go to hell expect to go to Heaven! Moreover, Jesus clearly states that the way in which a person prepares themselves for the offering of salvation is by means of concretely loving those unloved: the naked, the hungry, the sick, the imprisoned. When loving charity is true, it does not take action for the sake of Heaven, but for the sake of the person whose eyes it looks into.

In other words, what Jesus says about salvation directly contradicts what Osteen has to say about salvation! One is not “saved” because one believes one is “saved,” as if a mere intellectual acceptance of God’s existence staves off perdition. Matthew 25 starkly opposes evangelical Christianity’s approach to salvation, as those who expect salvation must ask why they are damned, whereas those who simply loved for the sake of loving must ask why they receive salvation. God does not save those who make themselves the center of their universes (as Osteen would have us do), but precisely those who de-center themselves within their existences (as Christ would have us do).

Neither holiness nor repentance nor the process of having our hearts set aflame with love of God bring money or fame or influence; simply believing that Jesus was God incarnate does not mean that all will be made better in my life. The process of encountering Jesus Christ writes moments of the Cross and Resurrection into our lives. It brings about a radical transformation of our hearts such that we might love those on the margins who have been cast aside by the pursuit of worldly power of which Osteen is so fond. It de-stabilizes us. It re-directs our priorities. Methinks that truly absorbing Christ’s preaching thus ought to make my blood run cold. It also ought to bring me to rejoice in light of the fact that although I am a sinner, I am beloved by the One against Whom I sin. This tension cannot be anything but discomforting, but this is the very tension in which Catholicism asks us to dwell, and is therefore the tension I ask my students to enter.

Jesus was not “nice”: he was radically compassionate, relentlessly loving, and frighteningly authentic. He was unafraid to call out friends, followers, opponents for their shortsightedness and hypocrisies, and he remains unafraid to do the same for us. Lukewarmth was just not his thing. Encountering the person of Christ, the Paschal Mystery and all that it entails, and fostering the consequent interior transformation that results from this encounter – all of which remain central to my identity as an evangelist – are not warm and fuzzy. They do, however, present a deep beauty.

My teaching, at least so far as I can tell, revolves around the principle that the human heart and mind are inherently drawn toward beauty, truth, and goodness; as such, I view my responsibility to primarily consist of revealing the beauty, truth, and goodness of the Catholic tradition as a means of establishing a relationship with God. If my students are not drawn toward Catholicism by the end of the year, then I have failed. Boy, oh boy, have I failed. I have turned kids off from Christianity, which pains me. Students have emerged from my classroom dismissive of religion and God and Catholicism, but I can at least find some comfort in knowing that I gave them the tools and vocabulary and disposition to engage these topics with a little bit less ignorance.

On the upside, however, I occasionally catch glimpses of my students growing uncomfortable as they sincerely encounter bits and pieces of legitimate theology. My atheist students question their beliefs as they meet Thomas Aquinas and his Five Ways of proving God’s existence. My religiously inclined students come to see that the natures of Christ and his Church run far deeper than memorizing Biblical history. All around, wounds of ignorance slowly heal. Preconceptions turn out to be misconceptions. The image of God we previously held turns out to be a distorted shadow of Who God actually is. Some of this happens, I suspect, even in our unawareness of its occurrence.

I expect that many of my students will forget 99.99% of what I teach them, of what they read and write, and of what we talk about. Doesn’t it all seem a futile waste? The bottom line of teaching – and I feel that this age-worn truism pertains especially well to my role as a theology teacher – is that teachers do not teach the material so much as they teach themselves. I think this might be the area in which I might hold the greatest sway in the lives of my students: I am a young dude who remains firmly dedicated to the Church, who dorks out on theology, who goofs off, who laughs with them constantly, who talks about Jesus a lot, who expresses and shares their same struggles and doubts. I’m a guy who seeks meaning in his life, just as they seek meaning in theirs, and in the midst of all this, I’ve concluded that Catholicism is the most true, good, and beautiful path to find my meaning.

Above all, I am indescribably grateful that my vocation is one in which I simply get to love my kids. My ministry as a teacher is the way in and through which I exercise that love. Because these students are my vocation, they are my salvation. Because they are in my life, I fall more deeply in love with Him. I am grateful that in helping them to encounter Jesus, I fall in with them.

Dave Gregory, an overgrown Muppet-like man-child, hails from Queens, New York City, and double-majored in philosophy and theology at Georgetown University, where he maintained active leadership roles in various Catholic-y things and whence he graduated in 2010. Throughout the course of his eight-year stint in Jesuit schools, he irrevocably fell madly in love with Jesus, discerned a vocation to the Society of Jesus, and consequently spent two years post-graduation as a Jesuit novice of the Maryland Province. God, however, led him out of religious life, at which point Dave heeded a call to the desert of southern California, where he taught theology and philosophy for two years at Xavier College Preparatory, the first Jesuit-less Jesuit high school in the United States. He is currently a graduate student at the Claremont School of Theology, pursuing a Master's degree in Biblical Theology with a concentration in the Hebrew Scriptures. Should your heart so desire to holler at him, you can reach him at dgregory@xavierprep.org.

(Editor's Note: This bio was lovingly and autobiographically written.)

The Genealogy of Ministry

Early last year, as I tried to decipher how I'd start creating a high school campus ministry from the ground up, I had it in my head that I wanted to create an immersion trip.

I used to work at a high school in Southern California that made several immersions a year to East Los Angeles. Centered on the home base of Dolores Mission in Boyle Heights, the trips involved a lot of experiential learning. Students were given first-hand exposure to rough neighborhoods, the realities of life on the margins, and the people that navigated these realities.

My experience on this immersion gave me some basic genetics to work with that I knew I wanted to keep: visiting a Catholic university for a tour and exposure to collegiate ministry, touring a vulnerable area through the eyes of the marginalized, learning about gang intervention (for East LA, we did so at Homebody Industries), serving and eating with marginalized people, and staying in simple lodging near our immersion sites and not our school.

Thanks to my friends and colleagues at this school, I was able to rundown some of these things with them and get their input on what to watch for as I constructed our trip. They encouraged me to not overpack the schedule with appointments. Leave time for kids to invent their own fun between more structured activities. Intersect faith with action. Activity to the point of exhaustion and reflection at day's end to process it all. Add in more insight from my brother and a Brother, and I was off.

With their wisdom in hand, I set out to navigate the waters of ministry. Those in the business, commercial, and industrial worlds rely heavily on networking: conversations, meetings, and business card exchanges that help companies connect, do business, and mutually support each other. I work in the Church. And we call this ministry.

Our Church is universal. Everyone scattered all throughout our messy network of faith is centered on their pastor, who's centered on his bishop, who's centered on the pope, who's centered on Christ. And when it comes to firing up ministry, you bet I tap this network.

I started with some new friends. Before I was Campus Minister at my current school, I was also offered a job by St. Xavier University. After copious deliberation, I chose to come to the high school, but my almost-boss and I agreed that it would be disappointing if we never found a way to work together anyway. So here was our chance: I wanted my students to visit a Catholic university, do a tour, and converse with college students who were doing something to live their faith and be active in Campus Ministry. My almost-boss and some of his ministry staff worked with me to setup a pizza lunch-and-conversation and sign us up for a campus tour. Boom. We're off.

I next decided to go off my hit list a little to try a home connection. My alma mater high school's annual Lenten Campaign once led us to raise thousands for the Mercy Home for Boys and Girls. As the Student Ministry Team co-chair, I got to deliver the check with several team members and tour the facility. My brother reminded me that the president was an alumnus of our high school, so I walked down this path. After a few emails, a conference call with him and some of his administrators, I matched up with a woman who directs the post-grad volunteers and mentoring program for their at-risk youth. She agreed to host my students for lunch, do an info session/Q&A, and walk them around the facility.

Now, whereas the California kids toured Skid Row with a social worker, I had to be creative as Chicago (thank God) does not have such a profoundly concentrated area of homeless (well, nowhere does). My brother had suggested I look into The Night Ministry, an organization with tons of outreaches to the marginalized of Chicago. I was fascinated by their "Night Walk," an urban immersion exercise in which participants learn about and discuss the realities and facts of homelessness, simulate homelessness themselves, and then share their experience. Despite tight schedules and last-minute issues, a long-time administrator dusted off his Night Walk skills and went out on a limb to lead us in our first Night Walk, though he hadn't been out to do one in over a decade. And now I've learned how to lead students on this activity in which they have 45-60 minutes to explore a neighborhood and discern how and/or where they'll eat/make money, sleep, warmup, and go to the bathroom.

Unfortunately, not everything works out, nor should it. I had the hope of having my students interact not just with homeless/marginalized adults, but also children. I tried to make contact with Catholic junior high and high school administrators, but I struck out. A junior high principal declined my request respectfully, opting not to have my students pass through for the day or afternoon. Mercy Home also opted to decline contact with their youth. Concerns over a one-time visit are paramount with kids such as these who have trust and loyalty issues. Thus, we wouldn't get to spend time with at-risk youth.

Before I got too far, I knew we needed somewhere we could stay. Leaning again on old friends, I reached out to a Viatorian brother, one who used to work at my high school and had been in formation for religious life and now eventually for priesthood. Having connected with him at graduate school, it was an easy pitch. He secured permission from the pastor of St. Viator Parish, on the northwest side of the city, for us to sleep in meeting rooms above their parish/school gymnasium. As would become my tagline to the kids for the trip, it would be safe but not comfortable.

At this point, I needed to go off my beaten paths to create new relationships. Our itinerary still lacked a food bank and a soup kitchen, and I wanted one or both added so the kids would have a significant encounter in direct service with the marginalized.

I Googled my way to a Catholic Charities supper site that served dinner at the right time and on the right day for our schedule. After a few labored conversations with an elderly woman in the office, she secured us volunteer slots at the supper, and a group who would cook the dinner we'd serve (we couldn't cook since we'd be on the road). And as faith would have it, when we arrived, we discovered that the dinner was held in the same building that housed a Polish school run by the same order of sisters who operate a retirement home next door to our school and assisted with the supper.

The biggest leap of faith came with the parish food bank I found. I had spoken over the phone with a woman about our coming to help at this site that she coordinated. When I made my confirmation calls and emails in the preceding weeks, I got derailed here. When I got through to the woman, she told me, through some stifled emotion, that she had been let go and no longer worked at the parish. She referred me to a parish phone number and the pastor, neither of which proved fruitful for confirming out visit.

The day of the trip came, and I made a decision: it's a Catholic Church; it has a food bank; and they could probably always use some help; so we're just gonna show up. We drove down into the Manor Park neighborhood and rolled into the gravelly, grassy parking lot of the adjacent school, walked around the corner to the courtyard, and saw tables and boxes being arrayed. I walked up to some men who seemed to be in charge and introduced myself. With a big smile, a fellow named Preston greeted us and immediately gave us jobs to get working on. He and his volunteers were wonderfully gracious, welcoming, and genial. They didn't want us to leave at the end of a busy morning, and as Preston and I traded phone numbers and man-hugs, I knew we'd be back. We've now made five different visits, including once in the summer outside of any school-sacntioned trip, to assist the food bank distribution at St. Columbanus.

Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for the soup kitchen. When we initially signed up, I had asked if the kids could eat with the families that came after they served them their dinner, or at least sit with them to talk. The site coordinator shot down this idea as intrusive, so we simply served and cleaned, leaving me a bit unsatisfied at the minimal interaction, and the implicit demarcation between the needy and those who came to serve. Our two visits there proved to be a bit rough and tumble, as we were mostly hired hands forced into particular duties and bossed around a bit. The focus was on cleaning and serving and not on encounter and relationship.

Before the third rendition of this immersion, I was frantic. This site already had volunteers for the day we'd be in town, and I needed a new place. After trying a handful of different places, ready to give up, a Franciscan Outreach center replied and said they'd take us, even though it'd be more help than they needed. We arrived late, stuck in rush hour traffic, and I worried that this would sour a not-yet-started relationship.

But we walked in to a grateful reception from young volunteers - the center was run by a community of post-grad volunteers, who took turns with the various tasks in organizing their nightly supper for the needy. The other adults who had signed up as volunteers for the meal were grateful to have an easier shift along side all of us and even got to happily leave early when we took on the brunt of the end-of-shift cleaning work. It was a great night of interacting not just with the hungry clients but also the Franciscan volunteers. They had a system that was easy to follow and enabled the servers to plug in with ease and focus on interacting with everyone. A new relationship was forged that endures still.

Another addition that came on after the inaugural outing came from our school chaplain. The trip was still without any contact with gang populations, or at-risk teenagers. He plugged me into members from his religious community who ran a center in one of the roughest Chicago neighborhoods where they gathered local youth to dialogue, express themselves, and hang out in a safe environment, off the streets. We made our first visit to the Precious Blood Ministry of Reconciliation, and found a new favorite site at which we could hear from people who overflowed with gratitude for their safe haven off the streets.

Not to be outdone, others continued to heap on more and more help. On our most recent service-learning immersion - The Margins #4 (we're up to 4 already!) - we got a bonus site. My contact at Mercy Home, when I confirmed the date for our trip with her, told me that the one and only Fr. Greg Boyle, SJ, of Homeboy Industries would be speaking at Dominican University of the west side of Chicago. Not only was this clutch in terms of timing and content (witness to gang intervention ministry and the epitome of solidarity), I knew the director of university ministry from grad school. I traded emails with him, and he helped secure us tickets to what proved to be a sold-out lecture. Because of the enterprise of a dear contact and the generosity of a new/old one, we got this beautiful bonus event thrown into the middle of our trip.

Sprinkle in visits to the University of Illinois-Chicago St. John Paul II Newman Center, Mass at Holy Name Cathedral, and other bits and pieces as schedules fluctuate from trip to trip. Add in the Catholic Social Teaching seminar I open the trip with to kickstart students' reflection on solidarity and serving with, not just for, and seeking relationship. And we have a heckuva service-immersion!

Yes, I am terribly guilty of humble-bragging. I am very proud of what we've (me and these first 29 students) built in these first four trips. It's quite a harbinger at a school that was seriously lacking in retreats and service in previous years, not for lack of faithful faculty/staff but for lack of someone dedicated to these things.

However, the main point of this isn't to celebrate my awesomeness. It's to celebrate the relative ease with which such a ridiculous endeavor can come together with a significant level of coherence and seamlessness.

Ironically, this most recent group of students loved to joke at me when things were missed. I carry a string bag full of their journals to pass them out when I'd like to stop and reflect, and one time, I was missing one (she had left hers in the car); another time, I couldn't find the second box of granola bars I had bought for our breakfast (I had never bought it), and I left the fruit snack boxes at school. In each of these cases, my students liked to groan, sarcastically, "Geez, Mr. Masterton, you only had ONE job! That was your ONLY job." They appreciated the organization and coherence of the trip, that they were just along for the ride and guided down such a path.

The beauty of the trip is that I was just the temporary pilot of a triple-7 jet, the humble captain of a cruise-ship. I just had to guide a familiar vessel down a path I could see ahead. All of these site contacts who made each piece fall into place were my air traffic controllers, my navigators. I radioed in my coordinates to them, and they guided me in. Like lighthouses and those goofy dudes on the tarmac with the neon sticks - they helped me steer my precious cargo (students' faith lives) in for a landing.

The end result of these trips is beautiful pictures of service in action, of friendships and community being discovered and strengthened, and of life-altering service-learning experience. But the genealogy, the pedigree of it all are the people who facilitated our visits. And all of them are united in Christ, by the reality that they live and work to serve Christ by serving others. All it took to tap into their service outreach was to share in their mission. Our desire to share their ministry was the only key needed to get in with them.

We got to join in with many amazing ministries already happening in Christ's name, so that we could alter our DNA a bit more to live Eucharistically. We sought to become more profoundly what and who we receive - Christ. By the help of these servants, we got to bring Christ to others, and we got to receive Christ from them.

To see more from these trips, visit the Bishop Noll Campus Ministry social media:
Facebook - Twitter or search #TheMargins - Instagram

Also, a map of our most recent trip's visits can be found here.

the72: Nick Galasso - Called by Weakness, Strengthened by Grace (Pt. 2)

Editor's Note: This post has been published in two parts. The first part was published on Wednesday, October 1, and can be read here.

For the next couple of months, the question of “What do I do now,” seemed to stay with me constantly. I had been found broken and I didn’t know how to fix that; indeed, there was no fixing to be done. I had been denied that which I desired most of all, simply, it seemed, because I was too weak to take it up. I felt like a man in love who was spurned by his beloved.

In my pursuit of my vocation, I had pursued Christ, but instead I found my own personal Gethsemane. I felt that all I could do was to pray and wait for God to answer. Once I had thought myself strong enough to carry on, to pursue my vocation to its next step, but now I felt I had no choice but to simply trust in God, to drink from the bitter cup of obedience, and let Him lead me to wherever I was to go, for I had no idea.

Upon returning to the United States at the end of June, I continued my job hunt while traveling around the Midwest visiting friends. While I vainly searched for a long-term ministry job, I worked as a freelance web-developer to support myself. For the first time in my life, I was not a minister; not because I didn’t have it as a job, but because I no longer knew how to.

During a train-ride between South Bend and Chicago, I decided to read one of my favorite books, The Great Divorce, by C. S. Lewis. Without getting too much into the book, a key concept is that holiness, perfection, and solidity are all one in the same. When people begin their journey to heaven, they arrive as ghosts, like mere shadows, but as they continued their journey they grow firmer and more solid as they approach God and forget themselves. As the book puts it, “Reality is harsh to the feet of shadows,” and likewise the pilgrims must rely on others and give themselves time before their feet harden enough to walk on heaven’s grass.

Over the course of that four-hour train ride, my understanding of myself and vocation changed dramatically. No longer did I see vocation just as a journey propelled by gifts, strengths, and talents. That was but a small part of the puzzle. My vocation wasn’t about my strengths and my talents; it was about my weaknesses and what I needed to be made holy. Vocation wasn’t about the Path; it was about the Person.

As I continued to reflect on this, I realized just how prideful and foolish I had been. What had once been an email of rejection was now transfigured into a message of salvation. No longer would I judge my weakness as defective or broken. Instead, I would look with the eyes of Christ and see someone who was incomplete, whose feet were not yet firm enough to walk on the heavenly grass.

This revelation would transform my discernment and my call to ministry. No longer would I ask myself, “Lord, what shall I do with my talents?” Instead, I ask, “Lord, what do I need to be holy?” Where once I thought I had the strength to accomplish whatever task God had asked of me, I now realized that my strength was nothing compared to my own weakness and the strength that the grace of God afforded to one who truly depended upon it.

It was during this time I realized why I felt called so strongly to the Congregation of Holy Cross. Their motto is, “Ave Crux, Spes Unica”; literally, Hail the Cross, the Only Hope. I had shirked the cross given to me, both in regards to my relationship with my family and my childhood, and in doing so I had shirked Christ crucified upon it. So, in order to find Him, I needed to enter into my own weakness and brokenness and embrace my cross. Before I had even asked it of God, he gave me the answer to my pursuit of holiness: the Cross.

As God’s providence would have it, I moved home last November to live in my late grandmother’s farmhouse while the family took care of all the legalities that come with a person’s estate. Quickly thereafter, I would be hired by a local parish as their choir director and to build their music ministry from the ground up. Before, I had tried to follow my vocation my own way, and in my self-exaltation God humbled me. Now, as I moved to embrace my cross and humble myself to God’s will, I found exaltation.

In doing so, I put myself right where I didn’t want to be, but it was exactly what I needed. Through the grace of God, my relationship with my family transformed from being lifeless to being life-giving. It brought a healing and peace that I could have never given myself. As Christ says, “If anyone wishes to come after Me, he must deny himself, and take up his cross and follow Me. For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it; but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it” (Matthew 16:24-25). Truer words were never spoken and they were far kinder in reality than I could have imagined.

After continuing prayer and discernment, and after talking with the vocations director for Holy Cross, I will be re-applying to seminary this year. I would be lying if I said a part of me wasn’t terrified that their answer will be the same, or simply, “No.” Yet, this entire experience has profoundly changed who I am and how I live out my ministry. Where once I depended on my own strength, now I can depend on God’s. No longer do I avoid my weakness and vulnerability, but instead I offer it to God and to others. I will always be the consummate minister; not because of my strength, but because I need to be.

I asked God, “What do I need to be holy?,” and He replied, “Tend my sheep.”

Nick Galasso graduated from the University of Notre Dame in 2012 with a BA in Honors Theology, for which he wrote his senior thesis on liturgy. While at Notre Dame, Nick was a member of the Notre Dame Folk Choir for four years, directed the Keough Tabernacle Choir for two years, and twice served as a Mentor-in-Faith for Notre Dame Vision. After graduating, Nick served as a lay volunteer for one year in the House of Brigid, a community that does music ministry, youth ministry, and catechesis in Wexford and the Diocese of Ferns in Ireland. A native of Homer City, PA, Nick now lives in Blairsville, PA, and works as the Director of Music at Our Lady of the Assumption Parish in the Diocese of Greensburg. Nick can be contacted at ngalasso@alumni.nd.edu.

the72: Nick Galasso - Called by Weakness, Strengthened by Grace (Pt. 1)

Editor's Note: This post has been published in two parts. The first part was published on Wednesday, October 1, and can be read here.

I cannot remember a time when I considered doing something else other than ministry. In some ways, you could say that the Church is in my blood. My great grandparents helped to construct the church building in which we worship and I am the fourth generation of my family to minister in some form or another.

Throughout my life, I have striven to be a consummate minister. If you name a ministry in the Church, I have done it. Whether my ministry was direct (such as liturgical, pastoral, or catechetical) or indirect (such as financial, logistical, or preparatory), I poured into it my entire being and I was very good at it.

Even my approach to life was ministerial in nature. My favorite moments with friends were one-on-one conversations with great vulnerability and intimacy. Emulating those who had so expertly ministered to me, I have had more than one conversation occur in chapel and end with me putting my arm around them, telling them that all would be well, and pledging to support them in whatever they were going through. It was these moments that I cherished most; it was these moments that I felt I was at my best.

By the time I graduated college, I had a very clear idea of what I wanted to do with the rest of my life: to become a priest. When I looked at my strengths, my gifts, and my talents, I didn’t just think that I would be good for it; I thought that I was forged for ministry and a life in community. I could think of nothing else I would be suited for or want to do. There was a vast flock that needed shepherds – and I wanted to answer that need.

So, in mid-February of 2013, I travelled from Wexford, Ireland, to Notre Dame to complete my formal interviews to join the Congregation of Holy Cross as a seminarian. Over the course of the preceding year, I had been living in Wexford as a member of the House of Brigid, a lay community of recent college graduates who ministered together in a parochial setting. It was during my time there that I completed the application before journeying to my final interviews.

The month after my interviews was one of my best in Ireland. We were almost ready for the parish’s first-ever Passion Play, our other ministries were going fantastically, and I felt like part of the community at Clonard. On St. Patrick’s Day we spent the day celebrating and later I joined a local “trad group” (or traditional Irish music band) from the parish for an evening of great music and many laughs. To quote Jack Dawson, I was “on top of the world.”

Upon waking the next morning, I went to my desk inside my bedroom and checked my email. Inside was a message from the vocations director of Holy Cross. It was the response to my application to seminary.

“I am writing because I have heard back from the Provincial regarding your application. His answer is ‘no, not yet’.”

Over the course of the email, he would explain that the committee felt that I had great potential for a vocation as a priest of Holy Cross, that they were impressed with what I had done so far, and that, with regards to my past, I was currently doing everything I needed to. Nevertheless, they felt it was necessary to give me more time to continue working on my relationship with my family before moving on to begin the work of seminary.

To put it into context, my relationship with my family had always been a complicated one. Throughout the course of growing up, it had left me feeling both wounded and angry. While that relationship had improved somewhat by the end of college, it still wasn’t what you might call healthy or life-giving. In my mind, my relationship with my family was a source of weakness and vulnerability, and it was something that I pushed out of my mind and avoided discussing. After all, if I felt weak, how could I be a rock and source of strength for others?

After re-reading the email, and then re-reading it again, I gave my computer a nod, shut it, and proceeded about my daily routine as normal. With only a week left until the parish’s Passion Play, and two weeks until Easter, there was a great amount of work that my community needed to get done, and, admittedly, it was a lot of work with which I could distract myself. It would take until after Easter, a half-month later, for me to tell my housemates about the committee’s decision.

Now, I told myself I wasn’t telling them because of the work, but the truth was I didn’t tell them because of my pride. I desired neither sympathy nor compassion, only to analyze the situation and figure out the next step. In truth, acknowledging it to them would have meant acknowledging it to myself, something that I wasn’t ready to do until I had the next step figured out.

Over the course of those weeks and beyond, I kept asking myself where I had failed. Had the interviews gone poorly? Was my application not good enough? Was there something different in the past I could have done that would have enabled me to join? Had I prayed and discerned incorrectly? To each of these questions, the answer was no; the email said as much.

Having found nothing different that I could have done that would have changed their answer, I began to think that the fault was with my very self and that even with all my strengths, gifts, and talents, I still wasn’t good enough. Even though the email affirmed everything I had done thus far, and it asked me to continue in what I was doing, it still burned of failure. I began to see myself as defected, wounded, and broken. All the strength I thought I had seemed to evaporate, and in my weakness I did not know how to minister to those around me. How could I give something I didn’t have for myself?

(Editor's Reminder: The continuation of this post was published on Thursday, October 2 and can be found here.)

Nick Galasso graduated from the University of Notre Dame in 2012 with a BA in Honors Theology, for which he wrote his senior thesis on liturgy. While at Notre Dame, Nick was a member of the Notre Dame Folk Choir for four years, directed the Keough Tabernacle Choir for two years, and twice served as a Mentor-in-Faith for Notre Dame Vision. After graduating, Nick served as a lay volunteer for one year in the House of Brigid, a community that does music ministry, youth ministry, and catechesis in Wexford and the Diocese of Ferns in Ireland. A native of Homer City, PA, Nick now lives in Blairsville, PA, and works as the Director of Music at Our Lady of the Assumption Parish in the Diocese of Greensburg. Nick can be contacted at ngalasso@alumni.nd.edu.