Having a Lucy

by Dan Masterton

Every year, a group of my best friends all get together over a vacation. Inevitably, on the last night that we’re all together we do a little thing we’ve come to call “year in review.” Usually, it centers on talking through a major joy and a major challenge from the year past, and sometimes includes some forward-looking hope and excitement to come.

I remember, years ago, when we reached this point in our gathering, my wife, Katherine, was standing next to me sipping water while we sipped champagne. She was six months pregnant with our first child. When my turn came up, I don’t remember exactly what all I said. I do remember one eager hope I shared: that in the upcoming year, together with Katherine, I would get to name my daughter.

I’ve long been fascinated by names, particularly as relates to our faith. In Genesis, Adam names the animals of Creation. Throughout the Pentateuch, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob is invoked over and over, naming the patriarchs with whom God closely walked – and, we must say, the women, from Sarah and on, who became mothers and matriarchs of a whole heritage of faith. God declares himself to be “I am who am,” the first mover and Creator of all. In Jewish piety, naming something is a way to assert control, which is why piety both invokes the forebearers of the faith and only names God peripherally and sparsely, and why exorcisms in the Gospels seek to identify and name the demons possessing people. Names, too, become a way to identify a transformation or passage – Abram and Sarai to Abraham and Sarah in the covenant, Jacob to Israel in struggling with God and becoming father of a nation, Saul to Paul on the road to Damascus, even modern expressions of religious life in which men and women (and popes!) take on new names for this new phase of life.

When it came to parenthood, the prospect of naming a child awed me. It was a small way to assert control as a parent – this is the name you’d call your child by, whether in love or scolding, and the way you identify who they are and will become. Even more, it was your way to identify the child to God, the name you’d tell the Church when you brought the child for baptism, and the name by which God would call this child.

To me, excitement about naming a person had nothing to do with decorating a nursery, embroidering clothing and towels, or designing a birth announcement. It had everything to do with the way this child would relate to God, particularly in prayer, and who that child would receive as their first patron in the communion of saints.

Personally, I have found great strength in the martyrs, particularly St. Maximilian Kolbe. The idea of one’s life of faith as a witness, whether one is called to witness to the point of death under persecution or not, is foundational for me. I am not one to be a street-corner preacher or even to evangelize with eye-catching actions; I try to be the one who lives a quiet but strong example, and shares it in subtle but steady ways. This is witness to me, and I think the martyrs provide the ideal toward which I hope my witness will strive.

Knowing that we were expecting a baby girl, my heart was drawn to the great women martyrs of our tradition. While we had a few names in mind, I was hoping Katherine would land on a name that belonged to one of these martyrs, too, and I not-so-quietly rooted them on. The variable in this equation was that I had this weird insistence that I couldn’t name a kiddo before I got to see her, hold her, and look at her.

After a tricky, lengthy labor, our first daughter arrived via C-section at about 11:30pm on March 18, 2017. They did some extra early scrutiny and then brought her to Katherine for her first dose of quality mother time. Then, Katherine got some much deserved and needed rest while I got to hold my daughter, on my own, in the hospital equivalent of monastic solitude and quiet, from about 1am to 4am.

We had a long talk. My heart was broken open and poured forth all kinds of sappy, drippy love, largely through hypothetical stories and questions I set up to try to capture a love I had barely started to realize I had. And as I just stared into her sleeping face, I felt like I knew.

The next morning, the casual conversations Katherine and I had already volleyed about names suddenly got real. A rather nondescript worker with a push-cart rolled in and handed us a very simple form. She was from records. We had to write our daughter’s name for the birth certificate.

We found pretty easy agreement on Lucy. We had played with some middle names but hadn’t settled on any. With similar energy to the “you have to go” she told me ten days into our relationship when I was offered a one-year placement in Ireland for post-grad service, Katherine told me she should be Lucy Karen, a namesake girl for my late mother, who died at the age of 60, four years earlier. I was flabbergasted and of course on board. Our daughter would carry the name of a canonized saint and a woman believed to be in heaven by a locally attested life of virtue and popular acclaim.

We handed the clerk a page with Lucy Karen Masterton, written out formally for the first time. Later that day, we got to introduce her to our family and share her freshly minted name. Then three months later, with my best friend of twenty-plus years holding her as godfather, she was baptized Lucy Karen.

I’ve always felt great about our choice, and it does feel good when others compliment the names you choose for your kids. But what has made me the happiest has been the way that my wife, my daughters, my dad, my brothers, my in-laws, and so many of our friends have taken to the patronage of St. Lucy for her.

Every year, we invite Lucy to put on a white dress and wreath crown, and she mugs for some fun pictures. This year, reviewing the story of St. Lucy and the customs around her feast, my Lucy even asked if she could get a tray and “serve” the ice cream we were going to pick up; I declined, so as to avoid a mess, but you gotta love the thought!

The response is always lovely on social media – people so enjoy seeing her emulate this beloved saint. But I even get unsolicited texts from family and friends, those I’ve seen recently and others with whom it’s been a while, reconnecting, even if briefly, over this occasion. An aunt and uncle sent a picture from their parish because Lucy’s cousins had recognized a St. Lucy poster on the wall and got excited.

I hoped when we found out we were expecting that our kids’ patronal feasts would be special. In the early going, I’m settling for an ice cream outing and a special emphasis on our intercessory invocation at bedtime prayer. The last couple years, Lucy and I have talked through the stories of St. Lucy we hold in tradition. As the kids get older, I hope we’ll go to Mass together, maybe start lighting candles with special intentions. Maybe when they’re teens, we can plan a service project to go with it.

No matter how it goes, the excited hope of naming a child has been everything I hoped for and more, both with Lucy Karen and now our boisterous Cecilia Jane, another martyr-grandmother combo. It calls to mind an early moment of this realized excitement that sustains in special days like these – the baptismal sacramental prayer that strikes upon a beautiful image of our home in God and with the communion of saints:

Parents and godparents,
this light is entrusted to you to be kept burning brightly.
This child of yours has been enlightened by Christ.
He (she) is to walk always as a child of the light.
May he (she) keep the flame of faith alive in his (her) heart.
When the Lord comes, may he (she) go out to meet him
with all the saints in the heavenly kingdom.

Thoughts for National Vocations Awareness Week

by Dan Masterton

I’ve heard from some folks that when they’ve heard vocation discussed in their Catholic faith lives, they hear it only in the context of vocations to the priesthood, in a largely single-minded way. I’m grateful to report that hasn’t been my experience.

In high school, I remember learning about the four states of life: single, married, religious, and ordained. In college, I enjoyed friendships and mentorships where the word “discernment” was used liberally for decisions of majors, career directions, internships, and states of life. I had the chance to work for a university summer program that strived to form visiting teenagers in earnest explorations of broader vocational discernment, focused on identifying one’s gifts and passions and putting them to the service of the needs of others and the world. And in adult life, knowing those who’ve gone in and out of religious life discernment, as well as those who’ve wrestled with remaining single or discerned marriage, it’s been a blessing to have many faithful partners for rich conversations of discernment.

All of this is a blessing to my faith life, and it has helped me discern all that I am today: a husband, a father, a professional pastoral minister, a mostly-stay-at-home dad, and more.

The exit door waiting after
the last full Kairos retreat I directed.

Part of that discernment was transitioning out of my dream career two and a half years ago. All college and my volunteer year, I wanted badly to become a high school campus minister. And for seven great years, I got to do just that. For the last two of those years, I worked part time, two-ish days a week on site with emails and phone calls to supplement, while I became mostly a stay-at-home dad with my daughters.

At the end of that second year, it was clear to me that it wasn’t sustainable. I felt like a weak link to my students, who needed consistent presence and constant availability. I felt like a weak link to my colleagues, who regularly exceeded their contracted responsibilities and went above and beyond for our kids. I wanted to draw firm limits on my work to be faithful to caring for my kids and wife and sustaining our home. When it was clear I’d have to exceed that to serve the community the way I thought it deserved, then I knew I needed to move on.

Part of the very good reason
I rarely direct major, lengthy
events anymore :)
(Lucy toasting with me
to my fellow Kairos adults
when we got home.)

What was waiting for me next was the chance to work with a men’s religious community near and dear to my heart. The Viatorians are professed brothers and priests, together with lay associates, who proclaim Jesus Christ and His Gospel and raise communities where faith is lived, deepened, and celebrated. This includes my alma mater (‘07), Saint Viator High School, which the community founded in the 1960s and has run ever since.

As a student, I had the chance to get to know a few of the brothers and priests and stayed in touch with some of them into adulthood -- I teen-edited Gospel reflections and later in college got beers and pub grub with Fr. Corey when he was traveling in Europe and I was studying in London; I met Br. John for dinner in southern California when I lived out there and he was traveling and hiking with a friend; I even had grad school class with Fr. Dan as he studied for priesthood.

My friend, Br. John, has been directing vocation ministry for a few years, and, about two and half years ago, he asked the community to create a part-time role with him. He wanted better, more specific resources, a systematic way to catalogue inquiries and ensure timely responses, wider, better communications and social media, posters and branded items to spread around, and more. The job was created with remote flexibility, so, even before the pandemic, this stay-at-home dad could work one day a week on site and fill in the rest by remote access and phone and video calls. That arrangement was a great fit for my family life and the sustenance of my ministerial desires.

What I didn’t realize was the ways it’d form and inform my ministerial mindset.

First, Br. John doesn’t dislike “call” language but worries it’s too reductive. He likes to challenge people to consider what God is inviting them to do right now, and to acknowledge that God’s invitations are ongoing. This uncorks a reframing of discernment that is intriguing and fresh.

Additionally, we try to challenge the brothers, priests, and associates, as well as lay staff catechists, and community members, to embrace their roles as vocation ministers. While Br. John may be the one who has the intentional conversations with serious discerners, they most often arise from faithful, intentional companionship in their faith communities. So when people on the local levels own this, it can influence their accompaniment to include questions and encouragements on vocation.

Finally, we have try to toe the line in the approach. On the one hand, we don’t want to revert to older ways of vocation ministry. I would describe those as recruitment, at least in the way I’ve heard about them -- higher pressure, less screening and formation, and a greater focus on just turning young men into priests. On the other hand, he knows we cannot become so hands off or so casual that no one ever discusses the need for religious and priests -- vocational discernment, of all states of life, cannot decrease to zero.

Instead, vocation culture is perhaps best when all states of life are honored and featured -- in talks and discussions, in posters and videos -- and then, as part of that process, the specific question is asked, “Is God perhaps inviting you to religious life or priesthood?” It doesn’t need to be the first or only question asked in discernment, but does need to be a question that is asked.

This week is National Vocations Awareness Week. Because of my life of faith in a lot of exceptional faith communities, I feel very aware of my vocation and how I came to live it (and am coming to live it), very aware of the many vocations in the life of the Church, and aware of my place as a companion to others as they seek God’s invitation for them.

This week, I challenge you: pray for an increase in vocations to religious life and priesthood. Ask God for clarity to see and more deeply understand God’s ongoing invitations for you. Consider who around you in your circle of friends, family life, or faith community might be in need of discernment accompaniment, and if they’re single and humbly minded toward service, you might ask, “Could God be inviting you to religious life or priesthood?”

What There Is to Be Done: Chapters 8-13 (The End!)

by Dan Masterton

I have a much easier time moving efficiently and quickly than I do with pumping the brakes and really trying to do a slow, careful job. This quality does not come in handy when I am doing the dishes or mowing the lawn. It does come in handy when I write.

There are certainly times where I could stand to brainstorm and outline and draft and redraft more than I do, and there have been times when I've settled myself to that different pace. Most often, though, I usually have the ability to get thoughts and reflections to words pretty smoothly and efficiently. I rarely find myself at a loss for turning the ideas that pinball around into words. The blank page and flashing cursor can intimidate, but I can usually overwhelm the void in short order.

So when I decided to try out creative writing for the first time since school years, this again came in handy. I dug into the fine resources from National Novel Writing Month, picked out a couple great aids, and got to work sketching out some ideas. Following the old "write what you know" adage, the arc of a young adult discerning life while working in a Catholic high school took basic shape. Then I began a weeks-long, 50,000-word free write and the details and connections filled in.

I think, some day, I might be more inclined to chase down more of a masterpiece of writing. I've got handfuls of unfinished drafts, bullet-pointed lists of notes, and other stray ideas that I've never done anything with. For whatever reasons, since I started writing regularly in college, I'm just more inclined to put fingers to keyboard and get going.

Whatever its limitations or shortcomings, this impulse has kept me writing pretty consistently for twelve years. And while the quality or relevance of what I've done is certainly subjective and impossible to pin down fully, I hope the way I keep showing up matches me up with readers who are seeking something that might make them think or reflect.

This time, it's a fiction story in thirteen chapters and 55,000 words. It's a paperback and an audiobook podcast:

It's all done. It's faithful and earnest but imperfect. And like me, and my writing for years, it continues to show up. I'd say it probably won't win any awards, but it'd be worthy of purchase for your nightstand reading stack or as a podcast to download to your phone for your next travel day, road trip, or waiting room stint. Let me know what you think! I'll be here, like always.

What There Is to Be Done: Chapters 5-7

by Dan Masterton

I remember reaching out to a friend who I wanted to join this blog as a partner writer. She is a thoughtful, wise person, a committed Catholic, and a fabulous pastoral minister. I was hopeful she would say yes — and she did and wrote here for a while — but it was the way she said yes that has long stuck with me.

Her yes wasn’t conditional but did strike upon a different mindset for writing and sharing: 

“Having the space to write about whatever as well as the accountability actually to write it would cause me to be more conscientious about reflecting well. Then hopefully those articulations may help other people.”

She continued, “I think Restless Hearts works where it is, and if God wants to use it for something more, he'll make it happen, and I appreciate that you seem content with either.”

I loved the ideal she expressed here, and it put to words something I’ve always tried to hold closely when I write and post. While never totally immune to the glory of pageview counts, my hope was always that I could keep writing and sharing just to engage people, whether seen in shares and comments or on side texts or even never seen at all.

My friend here highlights the potential nature that writing and sharing has to be simply gift, and it’s something I’ve always held on to in order to help keep myself grounded (and partly because I’m a terrible promoter and marketer!).

So on I go, doing my thing, for my own spiritual rumination, as a hobbyist outlet, and hopefully and perhaps as a bit of an engager for some readers (and listeners!). 

If you want to read What There Is to Be Done, you can order a paperback! Visit my LinkTree for the order form. Or for the audiobook podcast, check out Hear Here! on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Stitcher, and Google Podcasts.

+ + +

Chapter 5: Theresa sits down for her annual job review, and attempts to keep calm while wondering if a new offer for next year is coming from here principal, Frances.

Chapter 6: Theresa spends a Sunday morning talking discernment with her husband, John, and then bringing that conversation to Mass at their parish.

Chapter 7: Theresa is flustered because she wants to accept the job but hasn't had the chance, so she hits the pub for a Friday drink with Mike. She resettles into some fresh peace and pulls on a thread to unravel a happy discovery. (Warning: some mild language in this chapter.)

What There Is to Be Done: Chapters 1-4

by Dan Masterton

Most afternoons, around 3pm, my 4-year-old daughter, Lucy, and I usually sit down to read for a good while. My 1-year-old, Cecilia, has been down to nap for about an hour; Lucy and I have tended to a few household chores (Lucy is a great kitchen helper who helps set the cold brew pitcher, mix meat marinades, and prepare batters and doughs with me); then, when we have some quiet time to ourselves, she almost always wants to read.

There's an elite canon of books and stories I could probably read without looking. There's a few that require fresh attention each time, especially the Dr. Seuss ones with made-up words. Either way, the opportunity to read aloud is a special treat — and something I hadn't personally done much since I was in elementary school, that is until my kids were born.

So, sitting down to record a read-aloud of this story I wrote has been an unusual treat, another way to bring reading further forward in my life, and hopefully yours, too. It's definitely different to sit in an empty room and read aloud for recording after everyone has gone to bed, versus nestling into a sofa with my daughter in the afternoon. But the joy of reading aloud is distinct.

If you want to read What There Is to Be Done, you can order a paperback! Visit my LinkTree for the order form.

The first four chapters are also now out as audiobook podcast episodes.

In chapter 1, get acquainted with Theresa, or as the kids call her, Mrs. Acutis, as she begins a new year teaching at Mary, Mother of God High School and reckons with an intriguing faith formation session.

In chapter 2, walk with Theresa and her husband, John, as they work through a conversation around Theresa's discernment of perhaps pursuing a different role at her school.

In chapter 3, Theresa makes a visit to her spiritual director, Duke, and explores continuing to teach versus perhaps making a switch, and learns to look out for "screwtaping" herself.

And, in Chapter 4, the time is nearing for Theresa to decide if she wants to pursue a new role, and to figure out how to do it. Meanwhile, some affirmations come flying in but are overshadowed by others' teardowns.

You could also try a little taste of What There Is to Be Done by listening to the teasers, including this passage that was my favorite segment to write:

Check out Hear Here! on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Stitcher, and Google Podcasts.

What There Is to Be Done: An Invitation to Read and Listen Along

by Dan Masterton

As we get older, we often feel more and more driven to refine our understanding of ourselves and God’s ongoing invitations for us, to find more fully those places where our gifts and passions meet some need or hunger in the community and world.

For me, I’ve found conviction and clarity in my life as a husband, a father, and a stay-at-home dad, feeling deeply and wholly myself in rich ways, even amid regular fits of frustration and impatience. Within and around that, there are also streaks and strains of things that both define the backbone of these core vocations and also branch neatly into other areas of my life and of who I am.

I’ve always felt drawn to writing, but not such that I wanted to hustle it into a living. I’ve consistently wanted to write for fun, and taken the engagement or modest earnings as they come. I write to externalize, to share, to process. And the lasting motivation is to offer it as gift, mostly (I’m only human) resisting urges to alter my content or delivery from my honest reflections. (And frankly, I don’t feel like my hustle or my skill is that of a full-time writer anyways.)

One of the crosscurrents beneath that passion for writing, and my work in pastoral ministry which I continue to do part-time, is the desire to explore our faith, largely through faith-sharing discussions and witness talks. Whether working with a discussion group of young adults or a veteran adult preparing a retreat talk or a small group of teenagers on a retreat, I find myself listening more closely, processing more incisively—striving to offer the perfect follow-up question or the most careful summary—so as to help another person refine their faith as it seeks understanding. I want badly in these moments for the other person to strike upon that perhaps elusive word or phrase in their mind. I want them to be able to voice an insight that can fan away some of the fog of uncertainty and sharpen the reflection in their mind and heart.

This is something that has driven me to embrace and enjoy Christian leadership formation and especially discussion facilitation. It’s led me to get more involved in social media and communications in the Church, to help us identify and share a mission and image more clearly (which is really hard! and something I don’t feel particularly good at, at least not yet). It’s even prompted some very specific writing in my current work in vocation ministry, as we seek to resource young men exploring religious life and other discerners, striving to provide maximum relevance and accessibility and they seek God’s invitation.

Last year, that desire for articulation got splashed around with my curiosity about giving creative writing a fresh try. I wasn't sure how well it might go, so I decided to try writing quite narrowly, drawing on experiences I’ve had in pastoral ministry, serving the Church, and working in a few various school communities. Using some of the resources of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writers’ Month)—though I shudder to call my writing a “novel” or myself a “novelist”—I planned and wrote a story about a young adult working in a high school.

After a one-month draft, three passes of edits, and some lite design work, I decided I wanted to offer What There Is to Be Done, in the same vein as I’ve always offered my writing: simply by sharing it. A story of discernment and vocation, faith and prayer, community and relationship, humble service and honest ambition, I tried to create a portrait of educational ministry and real discernment. I do readily admit it’s a relatively idealized narrative, colored by my obsession with nuance, and also weighed down by my penchant for excessively long sentences.

Leaning in to the growing desire many of us have to listen rather than just read, I’m going to record the book sort of like an audiobook, but I’m going to release it one chapter at a time as a weekly podcast, called Hear Here. Alongside the podcast, I also self-published a paperback that I’d love to send out to interested readers. You can order your copy here.

To perhaps whet your appetites, I want to first share a couple excerpts from the book. First, here’s a preview of how the book starts. The story follows our main character, Ms. Theresa Acutis, a younger veteran social studies teacher with a heart for student activities and an eye on what’s next for her at work and in her family:



Finally, I wanted to share my favorite passage in the book. One of the arcs of the story follows Theresa’s discernment about her job: she loves teaching social studies, and now teaches AP US History, but she also has dreams about directing student life for the school and believes she has some big ideas that could really work. In this passage, Theresa drifts away from a faculty meeting to visualize just what student life could become when she is able to build out the house system for the school:



Starting Monday, a new chapter of Hear Here: Dan's Audiobook Podcast will be available each week via the podcast feeds on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Stitcher, and Google Podcasts. I hope you'll follow along and listen and/or order a copy of the book to read in your hands!

A Ministry and a Book 17 Years in the Making

by Dan Masterton

Anytime you have an opportunity to talk about something you love, something you know well, something you're itching to share about and engage in with others, it's exciting. Sometimes, it's a casual, spontaneous conversation; sometimes, it's a speaking engagement to share thoughts with others in your area of interest; sometimes, it's the chance to write an article, or even a book.

From my own freshmen retreat at the start of high school, I've long had a passion for retreats. It's a passion that propelled me to attend or lead a dozen retreats in high school. It primed me to savor and delight in the monastic experience of two long weekend retreats at the Cistercian Abbey of Gethsemani in Kentucky during college. It was part of the motivation to hike the Camino de Santiago de Compostela pilgrimage, first with friends and then leading young people.

As a teenager, retreats are where I felt I could be my honest self, and in doing so, share myself, get to know others authentically, and set an attractive example of faith for others. As an adult and a professional pastoral minister, retreats are where my gifts and passions took strongest root and blossomed most fully, from planning retreats to forming student leaders to directing retreats. For all the beauty of prayer and liturgy, for all the truth in accompanying people on the margins, for all the growth found in justice ministry and service-learning, I have found my greatest professional vocational passion in directing retreats.

So far, working in several faith communities, alongside countless colleagues, I have been able to dig deep into retreat ministry, to dialogue and learn, and to see the impact and benefit of thoughtfully envisioned and carefully implemented retreat programming. With gratitude to so many colleagues, student leaders, and participants (both the earnest and the indifferent!), I was excited to plug into an opportunity with the National Catholic Educational Association (NCEA) to synthesize my experience into a guide on retreat ministry with young people.

My second book, Exploring Faith, is available now through NCEA. I had the chance to present a live session at the national conference, NCEA 2021, in April, where we first publicized the book, and now orders have begun shipping.

A second volume on retreats, exploring the history and academic underpinnings of retreat ministry is in the works, and will hopefully follow in the next year or two. (My solo book is sort of a follow-up to my book with Cari White on Campus Ministry, also available through NCEA entitled Cultivating Faith.)

The book is neither exhaustive nor prescriptive, for no two retreats or retreat programs are identical, no two faith communities have identical contexts or needs. The book is an earnest guide, a good-faith, thoughtful, experience-driven effort to cover most of the important bases, talk through crucial areas, and identify many of the major ideals that ought to anchor faithful retreat ministry.

The dedication and acknowledgements tip my ministerial cap to many of my closest teammates. But here, in an extension of that gratitude, I want to shout out the many, many, many people with whom I've partnered in retreat ministry over the last 17 years:

• to Mr. Paul McMahon, who as one of my campus ministers at Saint Viator High School in Arlington Heights, IL, was the first person to take me on and form me as a retreat leader, for Quest XII in Fall 2004 -- his advice to the student leaders to "go on a retreat for yourself next" spurred me to love retreats as a participant as well as to pursue further leadership
• to Ms. Betsy Fons and Ms. Lara Denise Lynch for having me as a freshmen retreat leader and student retreat director
• to Br. John Eustice, CSV, who selected me and formed me as a Kairos leader, the basis for my future as an adult and/or director on 11 (so far) subsequent Kairos retreats
• to Steve Warner, Karen Kirner, Michele Warner, and Folk Choir Interns Joe Nava and Jessica Mannen Kimmet, who brought me to a Cistercian abbey and, with the monks, taught me the power of routine, structured prayer, communal chant, and building community while retreated far from everyday society
• to Lenny DeLorenzo, Megan Shepherd, Aimee Shelide Mayer, Tim O'Malley, and my Vision 2010 & 2011 peers, who grew my seeds of call to retreat ministry from mild high school ponderings to real skills and joyful practice
• to Jessica, Molly Mattingly, and Kurt Nowak who tolerated my retreat antsiness, welcomed my disruptions, and encouraged me to try my hand, even and especially with Irish pre-teens
• to Jimmy Tricco, who with prophetic trust and/or desperate need, invited my critical thinking, empowered my desire, and lovingly propelled me into vocation
• to Steph DePrez, Erin Conway, and Dave Gregory, who forced me to dig past eye-rolls at Ignatian Spirituality and strive to emulate their ideal examples as educators of the whole persons of our students, as well as always spoiling for a fight via a good argument
• to Melissa Cedillo, whose receptivity to my faith-sharing and mentorship showed me I could do this ministry well, and whose growth and dialogue has made her one of my most needed teachers
• to Fr. Kevin Scalf, C.PP.S., the interlocutor who my heart of faith always wanted and needed, the model of strict expectations and theological substance as well as indefatigable humor and joy
• to Kim McMillan, Maggie Deady, and Megan Hersey Evans, the ones who welcomed the order I offered amid previous vestiges of chaos, who showed me how to meet students with different needs and still bring them what I thought they needed and what God wanted to show them
• to Paul Bubash, the model of meeting young people where they are, and bringing to the office a whiplash-inducing mix of productive work binges and unbelievably funny and informative tangents (and to Rex and Dennis for their companionship and partnership)
• to the dozens of student leaders who have stepped forward, invited formation, dedicated their time and their selves, and offered themselves to their peers
• and again to Br. John, who over the last 15 years has become a close friend, welcomed me as a peer, and challenged me to be inclusive, collaborative, and growth-minded
• finally, to my family -- my parents who first formed my heart and faith and made space for me to learn and grow in faith communities and through expensive but integral Catholic education, and Katherine, my wife and best friend, who affirms and encourages me (and covers me in my temporary familial absences) in this ministry

If these are tributes of the first few years, I can only imagine what else may be waiting in years ahead... All of my teammates and colleagues make their own mark on me, marks which can be seen in the way I strive to serve and lead and marks that can be seen in the book as well!

I hope anyone who ministers with young people, from middle schools to high schools to colleges to parishes, might consider grabbing a copy, if not for themselves then for the bookshelf in their community library room or departmental office. You can always start by borrowing a copy from me!

A Fairly Mundane Participation in the Paschal Feast

by Dan Masterton

Yesterday, for Easter, I asked my wife if she wouldn’t mind hanging home with our belligerently hyperactive 18-month-old so that I could attempt to take our 4-year-old to our parish parking lot for Mass. They were offering radio broadcast into church parking lot from the capped-capacity nave, along with a chance to come to the church doors for communion. I packed my daughter’s bible, magnetic Mass kit, and some snacks and saddled up.

We snagged a spot along the outside, second from the end so that we could put some folding chairs on the concrete and listen to the Mass through the open windows with the engine off. Swarms of springtime flies hovering around us quickly torpedoed that idea.

So we got back into the car, windows up, starting to get toasty on a sunny April morning, with the temperature climbing into the 70s. The radio signal broke through the silence two minutes after Mass starting, looping us in just before the Gloria began. Spoken, not sung, it was still refreshing to hear the congregational murmuring.

The readings delivered the Easter joy, at least as best I could follow them on my hastily pulled up USCCB.com link — the ambo microphone made the lector’s words sound more like heavy rain than human English. Lucy restlessly hung in there, bouncing between fascination with unfamiliar and alluring car gadgets in the front seat and passing questions about audio transmission and Mass mechanics.

During the homily, we were realistic and turned down the radio volume — that way Lucy and I could read her abridged version of the Gospel and talk about some of the things from Jesus’ life, including the empty tomb and Easter morning.

We were glad to be able to hear the Eucharistic Prayer a bit clearer. As we chatted over one of her side questions, we missed the directions. We could all hop out of our cars now and slowly and socially-distanced-ly make our way to the north door to sanitize our hands, receive Communion, and consume the host after stepping away from the line.

Lucy and I masked up, climbed out, and headed forward. From beside and behind us, the young and old, the parents and children, the able-bodied and the handicapped all made our way to funnel toward the Eucharist.

We watched an elderly woman in need of a wheelchair wait for her assistance. Her family member got out of the driver side, walked around toward her door, and staged her chair safely. Another family member jogged over from a different car and opened her door to assist her in climbing out. They got her seated and helped push her onward. In some way, I saw glimmers of Mark 2, echoes of the faithful friends who want their paralyzed loved one to meet Christ so badly that they climb the roof where Jesus is, break through the ceiling, and lower him down into the crowded room with Christ. Yet in another way, it was beautifully mundane — just a family caring for one another and participating in Mass.

Seeing the throng of communicants emerge from all directions of a spread-out array of cars projected a beautiful image, too. In a way, it called to mind the gathering of the elect, the joining of the communion of Saints and their marching with candlelight toward the Lord. Yet, it was also wonderfully simple, just another version of the pews and chairs emptying into a respectful line. 

John August Swanson, JohnAugustSwanson.com

Entering the vestibule, and knowing we’d go no further inside, was an odd feeling. As was receiving the Eucharist there, almost a la a drive-through. But that was just fine! There was no particularly visceral burst of luminous grace to my perhaps fatigued heart and mind — just a pang of peace and relief, a rest in familiarity. What more acutely warmed my soul was once again being in the midst of a tender older person showing love for a young one: the sweet woman ministering Communion leaned down to my daughter and said, “I’m not going to touch you, but know that God loves you and cares about you today and every day.”

I’m not sure how or when our family can start going to Mass the old-fashioned way. And these varied and unconventional adjustments certainly can challenge and strain. But this Easter, all of this was a welcome gift.

An Ex-Mighty Duck and the Trickiness of Invitation

by Dan Masterton

So, Mighty Ducks: Game Changers? I’m in. I appreciate the half-step away from pure reboot, and if the pilot is telling at all, it’ll be a light romp not unlike the Disney Channel classics of yore. And who couldn’t use a bit of one-dimensional flat characters with predictable stubborn growth arcs and easy humor? I’m delighted.

As my wife and I were chuckling through the pilot — especially almost every time Nick (Maxwell Simkins), the lovable sidekick and host of the second-most popular youth hockey podcast in Minnesota, opened his mouth — I was also struck by how Nick and main character, Evan (Brady Noon), tackle the tall task before them.

Game on. #TheMightyDucksGameChangers, an Original Series, starts streaming March 26 on #DisneyPlus. pic.twitter.com/yOVNOzAq5n

— Disney+ (@disneyplus) February 24, 2021

If you’re in the dark, I’ll just say that the Ducks have become so high-powered that their supremacy and obsessive culture has made them the enemy. Evan has been freshly cut, too slow and behind the developmental curve, and he and his mom are starting a new team that will bring back the fun that rec league hockey has lost. In short order, he needs four teammates to join Nick and him so they can register a new team by the league deadline.

As a pastoral minister and as the friend who often feels like I’m doing a lot of initiating and not always receiving quite so many invites in turn, I was struck — and felt seen — by Nick and Evan’s manner of recruiting.

First, Evan invites a few people one on one in conversations. Props to you, Evan! There’s nothing like the retail effect of that face-to-face invitation to mobilize people. Unfortunately for him, he gets shot down each time. Frustrating!

Next, Nick, the savvy preteen podcaster, offers to AirDrop an invite to everyone lunching in their middle school cafeteria. As everyone around them gets the ping on their phones, we see a montage of sneers, as people dismiss the notion. No one bites; the mass appeal strikes out. However, sometimes this sort of low-cost exposure to a new opportunity can help grease the skids toward eventual commitment a bit. Nonetheless, no quick gratification here! Worth a try. Gotta wait and see.

After some more steeling of nerve and a little pep talking, Evan needs to get it done in the eleventh hour. Once more, in the lunchroom, he makes a mass appeal. This time, rather than a passive e-blast, he throws down a lunch tray while standing on a table and delivers a plea from the heart. His appeal to break from the norm and join an oddball crew secures the four yeses he needs. Reinforcement of the initial blast? Effective pathos appeal? A mix of a few things? No matter how, way to go, Evan!

Man is this relatable, in social life and in ministry. Thinking here especially of pastorally connecting people to programs, events, etc. deep temptation is there to rely entirely or mostly on easy, wide-reaching, passive marketing: e-blasts to large existing listservs, posts to social media platforms, printing and hanging flyers, making an announcement over the PA or at a Mass. That stuff is important, helps move the needle, and gives people an easy way to catch on to something. But as much as we’d love for a social post to go viral or get shared repeatedly, it rarely does. We know the retail ministry is what reinforces the passive stuff and personally engages and develops interest. But even then, it just often feels like people are averse, low-commitment apathetics sometimes.

I know among Millennials, my social frustration is frequently that people wait for others to commit first. The frequent response to invitations was “who’s going?” or “who will be there?” And in my snide INFJ-ness, I want to say “you and me”!

Now working with Millennials and Gen-Z’ers, I see a lot of interest in faith and justice, and a lot of desire to come together around common interests and causes. The trouble here is often follow-through, a disconnect between stated interest and the commitment needed to do outreach and then show up for stuff. It’s especially tough, as my job was already part-time and largely remote, even before the pandemic made it almost 100% remote. I don’t have the preexisting relationships or clock time to build and utilize those relationships. Maybe the pandemic has made this extra bad, but I worry that it's become congenital.

There’s always room for outreach, invitation, and inclusion to be more thoughtful, more robust, more thorough. Yet, there’s also a point at which some of the burden falls to recipients. Are you really as interested in community life as you say? Will you take the risk to be a part of something new and unestablished? If you love hockey and love being part of a committed team, would you fall in with a ragtag new group with the right values?

Surely, programs could always be improved, and ministers could be more gregarious. But I also always hope (perhaps naively) that folks will realize their social capital a bit more. We certainly allow ourselves to be inundated with content across so many platforms and media, to an extent that can get overwhelming. Yet, it's all content that we’ve self-curated and invited into our feeds and inboxes.

It was interesting in this show to watch a pair of 12-year-old protagonists attempt to walk the outreach tightrope, and I was rooting for them to make it across to a positive end. I think we could all do well to acknowledge the power we have as recipients of invitation. Part of it could be filtering down the breadth of our feeds and inboxes a bit; maybe we're each due for a little spring cleaning of unsubscribing to e-blasts or unfollowing a few accounts we don't keep up with. More importantly, though, most all of us could do to be more consistently responsive, especially to non-generic, more personal outreach, and to place higher value on replying to friends, to ministers, and also to the invitations from God.

Zahm House: Our Flawed and Beloved Home

by Dan Masterton

Over the ten years of our relationship, my wife has had cause to poke fun at me for plenty of reasons. Chief among them may be my love for my hometown. Her barbs are well deserved as I irrationally use superlatives for most things -- the best park district, the greatest rec league competition, etc. What she calmly points out is that there is no way I could possibly know this, and it leaves me to admit that making such claims is pretty silly and delusional.

Over time, I’ve softened. While I still sing the praises of Arlington Heights, Illinois, I also see a bigger picture. Plenty of friends and family members grew up in other towns that were great in their own right, places these folks still have affection for and enjoy visiting. I’ve also realized that my hometown is excessively homogenous, extraordinarily privileged (as am I, and its current white inhabitants), and unfortunately, has recently been the site of hateful demonstrations. I think I appreciate my hometown more because I have come to understand its weaknesses as well as its strengths, and can love it for what it is while wanting it to be more and be better.

I am an alumnus of the University of Notre Dame, Class of 2011. When Domers find one another out in the world, the first follow-up question could perhaps be grad year or major or extracurriculars, but it is most likely “what dorm did you live in!?” Notre Dame doesn’t have Greek life, so the residence halls straddle a middle area between being cold, utilitarian buildings you just live in and being immersive fraternities and sororities.

As an incoming freshman with a brother about to graduate, I had the chance to try to secure a place in Sorin College through him. I thought briefly about it and declined; I wanted to be tossed into the deep end of the random generator, for better or worse. When my assignment populated to my online portal, the code was ZA… for Zahm Hall.

Notre Dame by choice, Zahm by the grace of God, we (and some of our t-shirts) say. Over the coming weeks and months, anecdotes, online chatter, and even the hallowed RedBook that arrived in the mail built up a mysterious and lofty image.

Frosh-O (Freshmen Orientation) and the early community events were a crash course in learning group chants (house house HOUSE HOUSE), basic history (we are Zahm House, whether others called it that or not), and the ubiquitous importance of trying to pick up girls. The early months in the dorm were a speedy immersion into the norms and low-hanging fruit of college social life, from beers that only came in multiples of 30 to beer bears and case races.

Section 2A from freshman year (2007-08)

I was a bit lost, uninterested in all of that. I had found an anchor point with a Church choir; I had gained a small group of mostly female friends through an old high school connection; but a social life founded on sober fun and conversation felt unfeasible, especially in my own home. Then one Saturday night, I was walking the halls and found a few other freshmen guys sitting on a futon, watching college football, and talking about sports. And with no booze in sight. Somehow, I joined them, and they welcomed me. This became a regular occurrence over our four years, with a rotating cast and a gradual inclusion of a few drinks as we got older.

Back in high school, and then also into college, my choice when in the midst of drinking, drug use, and/or sexual promiscuity was simply to opt out and to discourage it to friends, both before and after it happened -- it was the best and most I could muster at that age. Zahm’s “sixers” (enlarged quads for six guys) had blowouts “on the reg”; beer clouds wafted into stairwells nearly every weekend; and occasionally, you’d see girls stumbling through the hall, either before or after parietals required students to be out of the opposite sex dorms. It’s hard in retrospect, even if I never saw it, to wonder what sort of alcohol or drug abuse or sexual misconduct may have been happening just a few doors down.

I think my complicity comes in the way I embraced the chip-on-the-shoulder culture in Zahm. We relished the ire of other men’s dorms and built up the mystique we presumed from other women’s dorms; we perpetuated insular things like the NFS (“no foreign sausage”) rule barring males from other dorms at our parties; we heard the ignorant pep rally chants from other dorms of “Ole, ole, ole, Zahm’s gay” and joined in. Were other men’s dorms similarly dangerous or toxic? Probably, at least to some extent.. But Zahm as a whole, and even me individually, leaned into the tension and inflated it. And that wedge helped paved the road to closure.

Some freshmen invited to "come get some" during Torquemada 2008.

For many memories that make me chuckle, a cringy element lurks just behind the laughter. Dorm-wide reply-all emails often were uproariously funny, with many even creating burner Gmail accounts (before burners were a thing) to anonymously send their message. Imagine getting an email uplifting the traditional practice of a whole-dorm streak through the student center during finals week… and it’s from Teddy Roosevelt, who signed it “Speak softly, and carry a big stick”. But you realize in retrospect that it was advocating the continuation of a wholly inappropriate tradition. Around 11:50pm on many Sunday nights, a ragtag gang of guys with trash-can drums, kazoos, spare musical instruments, and off-key singing would lead a “parietals parade” to notify the women that it was time to leave. For as funny as verse two was -- “Boy time! Boy time! Preserve the community!” -- it only came after verse one, which when sang nicely was “Parietals parade, get the (ladies) out!”

Yet, there are the more purely good and wholesome things, too.

For a socially unconfident freshman who didn’t want to drink, and wondered if he needed to transfer out, Zahm is where I found my guys. At first, it was watching sports stone cold sober; then, it was a junior friend who saw in me a sophomore who wanted to enjoy a beer now and then without getting hammered, and talk about more than the weather or football; finally, it became a comfortable dynamic of social drinking while just hanging out.

For a Frosh-O schedule chock full of boisterous chants, painfully awkward mingling with girls, and competitive games, we also showed freshmen how to pray. While night one saw us staff members donning war paint, shouting into bullhorns, and leading the charge running in packs, night two had a solemn candle-lit walk to the Holy Cross cemetery. Freshmen set candles at the graves of the CSCs who went before us. We then gathered them at the grave of Fr. Zahm with our priest in residence to reflect on our namesake, a renowned priest and scientist, whose dorm houses the Chapel of St. Albert the Great, patron saint of scientists. Finally, we sat them down under the dome, where each upperclassmen shared a short story of adversity, stress, and anxiety from freshman year, but added the prayerful caveat: remember, she is your mother, and pointed up to the Golden Dome. This was our small way to ground new students in four years of Marian devotion.

On Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday night, whenever I got the urge to take a shoeless walk down to the chapel for 10pm daily Mass, I never went alone; there was always a roommate or section mate to go with me or a friend already in the pews happy to slide over and make room for me to join them.

Our cheers to four years on the
steps of the Main Building

And last year, when a dear friend and old roommate of mine got married, I saw the most Zahmbies I’ve seen in one place since graduation. I think of all the weddings where various invited guests are no-shows or have a conflict -- not In this case. Here a group of guys with so many different personalities, spanning six years of classes, who had roomed in different combinations and sections, all came. We all caught up, all introduced our wives and girlfriends, and all got to celebrate our beloved friend. I can’t think of another wedding with such a response except for this particular guy who was a hub of our community life in Zahm.

So as our Frosh-O signs had joked, even with the building 84 years standing and still erect, the active community of Zahm House ends in a few weeks. Being ten years out from last living there, I have some realism in my perspective. It probably wasn’t the greatest dorm ever; in fact, we never won dorm of the year awards -- though that’s because we never applied either. The building may be further renovated, ultimately renamed, eventually repurposed. And I think a detachment and surrender helps bring peace -- no name, no building, no tradition, no legacy is, or should be, bigger than student welfare, than a culture of welcome and support, than a respect for just policies. None of us can open the ResLife books and audit the case; I don’t appreciate the abrupt and final manner of sharing the decision in the dark of night; yet, I accept the ruling, and suspect it's well deserved and fully warranted by the exceedingly poor judgment and recalcitrant behavior over history and especially these last few years.

Senior day 2010, on the field

I try to keep processing my memories, straining and filtering the details so that I can relish the good and confront and acknowledge the bad. I hope others find similar perspective -- it's not wrong or weak to admit fault. One of Zahm’s last legacies may be one of a cautionary tale: build an identity; cultivate a community life; but don’t push past reasonable, needed boundaries of student welfare and safety. Or else you don’t deserve to continue. And for those of us who lived it, we can admit complicity in its weaknesses yet also extol its strengths.

Maybe this is a moment to reword and offer an old Zahm toast:

We drink one for the Irish;

We drink one for the Zahm;

We drink one for the 84 years
before they shut it down.

*cheers*

Published at Grotto Network: 5 Ways to Find Direction in Your Life

by Dan Masterton

One of the great blessings of staying close to my faith throughout high school, college, and young adult life has been the grace of discernment. This is a time of life when there are tons of major decisions to make. The Catholic spirituality of discernment provides us such a wealth of wisdom and structure through which to make faithful, thoughtful choices.

I found bits and pieces of help through my time as a Mentor-in-Faith with Notre Dame Vision, through my theology classes and thoughtful college friends, through intermittent exposure to Ignition spirituality, and now through my work in Vocation Ministry with the Viatorians, working to support both those discerning religious life as well as discernment of all vocations and states of life, especially among young adults.

My latest article at Grotto Network tries to distill some of the central tenets I've learned and practice into something nicely usable. 

"We like to ask kids, “So, what do you want to be when you grow up?” When we become adults, our questions and answers get a little more real. We can still hope and dream, but we have to conquer a certain amount of naivete and adopt more realism. We can still follow our passions but also must find a way to make a decent living, too.

There may be times when we’re moving in a clear direction, and other times when we’re more uncertain. So how do we work our way toward a life-path that’s fulfilling and stabilizing? We could certainly do some trial and error, trying different jobs and living situations and locations to see what feels right. We could have some informal conversations with family and friends. But we may find greater progress and richer answers if we adopt a more intentional — perhaps more spiritual — approach.

Whether you’re looking for a fresh path, or to retool and refine the one you’re already on, consider these ideas for finding direction in life."

Read the whole article at Grotto Network, and follow their social media to stay in the loop. 

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