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.

the72: A New Series

After this the Lord appointed seventy [-two] others

whom he sent ahead of him in pairs

to every town and place he intended to visit.

He said to them,

“The harvest is abundant but the laborers are few;

so ask the master of the harvest to send out laborers for his harvest.

Go on your way;

behold, I am sending you like lambs among wolves."

-Luke 10:1-3

I like to read this passage to Kairos leaders as I begin the workshop in which the leaders reflect on their lives and their retreat experiences, identify a compelling story of sin, grace, and/or conversion from their lives, and attempt to write it down. Being a retreat leader is largely about putting yourself out there, taking a risk, and being vulnerable and honest, even when others are hesitant to do so as of yet.

Jesus asks his friends to do just this, as he appoints them to be bearers of His good news. And he warns them that it won't be easy, comparing them to prey among predators. These seventy-two are blessed to be called to such a task, and they have the love and support of Christ to fuel them amid the awaiting challenges.

When we were baptized, God called us all to be part of Someone (Jesus Christ) and Something (the Church) bigger than ourselves. We became part of a holy nation, a royal priesthood. Whether that manifests itself in single life, married life, religious life, or priesthood, all baptized people are called to dedicate themselves to selfless love. And whether one's state of life leads to a blue-collar or white-collar career, to the business sector or to education, to direct ministry or to working with data, we all have countless opportunities to live out this call.

In both big decisions and small, in our grandest actions and our smallest gestures, in our professional business and our private lives, God calls us to be ministers. To minister is to love and care for another person, and this fits exactly with the way our faith necessarily calls us to be the hands and feet of Christ for others.

The seventy-two are some of the first people to whom Jesus extends this call, building on the baptisms by John and the individual calls to His first disciples. We are part of this seventy-two, messengers asked to prepare a way for Christ in our world. And in order to give us a way to engage with the various ways that we can live out this call, I want to gather reflections from many different Kingdom-builders in our Church.

About once a week, this blog will feature personal reflections from guest bloggers, who will become part of the72, The Restless Heart's community writers. I don't know if we'll get 72 different witnesses to log their thoughts here, but week-by-week, another person striving to live out an answer to God's call will answer the question, "How am I called to live my ministry?"

Some guests will publish their thoughts first-hand in their own words; others will share their reflection with me in an interview, which I will publish on their behalf. Either way, I hope you can find resonance between your efforts to live your baptismal call and theirs. I'll introduce them by name and share a short bio at the top of their posts with contact information if you'd like to connect with them.

I hope that bridges are built between fellow kingdom builders that create newfound consolation in our ongoing efforts to grow closer to one another and to God. Oh, and by the way, I like to share the rest of Luke 10 with my leaders, because it has a pretty happy ending for the ones that Jesus sends forth:

The seventy [-two] returned rejoicing, and said,

“Lord, even the demons are subject to us because of your name.”

Jesus said, “I have observed Satan fall like lightning from the sky.

Behold, I have given you the power ‘to tread upon serpents’ and scorpions

and upon the full force of the enemy and nothing will harm you.

Nevertheless, do not rejoice because the spirits are subject to you,

but rejoice because your names are written in heaven.”

-Luke 10:17-20

I Ran the Race

Friends, this post ends a 5-year stretch of my personal stewardship of this blog. In gratitude for your readership, and as a ministry of furthering the reflection here, my blog will branch out to include community writers. These guest-posters will reflect on how they are answering God's call to live out their vocation. This new series will be published once a week under the title "the72." A fuller explanation will follow in the next post to this blog, accompanied by a redesigned page-look and a new link into Twitter. Stay tuned!

As beautifully described by Love Actually, the arrivals gate at airports is one of the most beautiful places in our world. The many reunions of travelers returning to their loved ones rarely feature animosity, conditions, or disappointments. In pure moments, the longings of two hearts meet in loving embraces.

I wasn't able to come home for Christmas my first year out of college because I was living in Ireland. The next year, when I flew back home from seeing friends in Arizona just before Christmas, I remember the joy of walking up to my family's car. My dad helped my luggage into the car, and my brother was riding shotgun. Then, as I opened the door, I saw my mom sitting there behind the driver's seat, and after buckling up, immediately fell sideways into her waiting arms. It was the securest, warmest embrace I'd had in a long time, and as I laid there for a bit too long, I'll never forget her saying through oncoming tears, "Best Christmas present ever."

Recently, I ran a couple of 5k races. I love running for so many reasons - good exercise, cardio, calorie burning, relaxing solitude and/or dynamic company, and the time outdoors. And I love racing even more.

For the first time since I ran a 10k and half-marathon back in Wexford, Ireland in 2012, I decided to choose a 5k and train up for it. Signing up to race is great because it grounds and directs my training and adds purpose to an activity I already enjoy, ratcheting up my fervor and passion an extra bit more.

Because, you see, now on top of the reasons I listed above, I get to activate my competitive side, which is a large "side" of me (does that make me lopsided?). And the beautiful thing about running is that, unlike other sports, there's no offense, defense, or scoreboard. There's very little stats. There's you, the course, and the clock. Other runners are there, but they are just variable buoys on the sea of a race that challenge you to identify a pace and run a particular race. Some runners zip out sub-five-minute miles while others hope simply to break a 10- or 12-minute pace. And this is a time when relativity is perfectly acceptable. Regardless of your pace, it's primarily about setting a goal based on your own ability and track record, and aiming to meet it.

Personally, I wanted to match or beat my college personal record (PR) of 21:27. As I trained, I found the results page for the previous renditions of this race. If I came close to my PR, I'd finish in the 75-100th place range in a field of 400-500 runners, and I was a bit intimidated by the crazy times I saw registered at the top of those fields.

When race day came, it was the usual spread of runners of all ages and builds, and sure enough, up at the front, were "those guys" in singlets and short shorts, weighing all of 100 pounds, and ready to get out way in front of the field. It was challenging to find my place in the pack early in the race as some people passed me while I passed others. I settled into a decent groove and hit the first mile marker in 6:50. I managed to beat my PR with a final time of 21:08, 44th place overall among 436 finishers, and 33rd among men.

As I settled my hyper body with a slow walk and cold water, I grabbed some food and water to have ready for my fiancee as she finished. I did some quick math and guessed an ETA for her. So after a few minutes of cool-down walking, I went up along the edge of the course to watch people finish.

It was great to hear the varied shouts and cheers, as spectators eyed their friends or family who were racing, and the runners searched for their supporters in the crowd. I even saw one beleaguered middle-aged man veer toward his buddies on the side of the path and reach a Barney-armed high-five to them as he doggedly neared the finish.

As the clock got within 4-5 minutes of my estimated ETA for her, I was watching more and more people whizz by in the home stretch when I saw a pale green shirt on the far edge of the path - there she was! Coming in ahead of the time I had guessed (and what she might have guessed too), she zipped over the finish line, and I ran to meet her with Clif Bar and water in hand.

I walked some cool-down time with her and gushed over her surprising time. I was so impressed that she came in so far ahead of where we might have guessed she would. Something about the race and the run pushed her to a stronger pace, which I thought was pretty awesome.

Running and racing are great because it's about finishing the race with vigor and striving for your goal. I was never gonna beat "those guys" running 15-flat, but you bet I could beat my previous self - and I did. My fiancee wasn't going to beat me, but she could outgun her earlier times and finish hard - and she did. And even those people who finished in 40 or 50 or more minutes, they got the same applause and ovation as the earlier finishers. Because it's all about racing yourself and finishing strong.

And so much of it is relative. I ran another race three days later. Different crowds, different demographics. Ran a similar time but finished 4th. Getting that place is neat, but ultimately, it's the race against myself that trumps the rest. And just the same at that race, the later finishers got as much or more acclaim as the "better" runners.

Much like the arrivals gate at the airport, people at the finish line don't care about petty conditions or quantifiable stats. They just want to cheer you on, to embrace you to the finish. They want you to summon that last bit of energy and push hard across the finish line. No one wants to knock you down or trip you up - everyone just wants you to give what you got through the end.

This is the challenge of our faith. Like "those guys" in my race, some may appear to be coasting to great spiritual results easily, but it is up to them to know they are capable of a higher moral standard and strive for their sainthood accordingly. Some people may be like "average" runners, going to Mass "most" of the time, praying now and then, and sort of getting by spiritually; they have to race themselves, striving to improve bit by bit, even if they may never run a 5-minute spiritual-mile. Others may be like those who jog so slow they're almost walking, but these people are still called to finish their races, even if it take 15 minutes for each mile.

And no matter how soon everyone gets to the finish line - of a particularly hard day or week, of a friend's illness or family death, of a spell of unemployment, or a personal dark night of the soul - we must be there to cheer on our brothers and sisters, regardless of their ability and finishing time. We should be conduits for the love of God in our support, to help others approach the finish line with strength, giving what they have left to complete the race.

In The Parable of the Good Employer, Jesus tells us about a landowner who hires waves of workers in the morning, midday, and end of the day. Though some worked longer than others, he pays them all the same. The lesson? God takes care of anyone who makes the effort to freely choose love and undertake the task. And He wants us to worry about doing our own part diligently and receiving what is just without comparing our result to others.

Regardless of how long or hard your race is, God is waiting at the finish life of every day, every week, and every good or bad spell of life with a bottle of water and a Clif Bar. God needs each of us to be His hands and feet in cheering each other on. Through us, Christ can help all of his brothers and sisters to run a good race and sprint through each finish line in life, all pointed toward building the Kingdom on earth and becoming part of it forever in Heaven.

Breaking the Ice

As I began my first endeavors into living my dream - doing campus ministry at a Catholic high school - I was struck by the immense power and cultural capital of social media among the teenagers to whom I ministered. Over the year, conversations among the adults in the building often gravitated toward the negative and harmful behaviors displayed on these media.

Kids would rip each other and get into massive "Twitter wars," tweeting back and forth at each other, to a point far deeper than flesh wounds. Kids would post Instagrams and Facebook photos of them doing stupid, illegal things that tainted their own reputation and that of the school, in addition to the harm they did to themselves physically/mentally/emotionally and legally. And social media activity, or a lack thereof, only stood to reinforce actual social feuds and rough patches in teenage relationships with passive-aggressive "unfollows" and "unfriends" and postings that were clearly though implicitly directed at particular targets.

During our summit week, in which kids were tasked with engaging various forms of poverty in new ways, I challenged them - through my sub while I recovered from my appendectomy - to engage with typical occurrences from teenage social life and decide how they would respond - post to Twitter? send a text to a friend? talk to an adult? hand-write a note? The point I tried to make was that social media carry different complementary purposes that can help support and uphold our relationships and the regular ways we interact sans technology.

I ended that first year full of musings about how to tackle my next task - moving to another school and building a Campus Ministry basically from the ground up. I decided when I took the job that social media would be a cornerstone of my outreach. I figured that, in order to connect maximally with my teenagers, I had to speak all of their languages.

As the kids rifled through orientation, our loving dean cautioned them against social media activity by citing the dangers its poor usage posed to their job and college prospects. Unfortunately, he went so far as to label social media "evil." I found that to be too far. In my opinion, social media itself isn't evil; the way it's used can certainly be. Similarly, a knife isn't evil when it's spreading butter or cutting a steak, but when one uses it to threaten or hurt another person, it becomes evil. My approach to social media was to infiltrate it with hearty, wholesome, good content. I wanted my postings intermingled with all the rest of the stuff in their news-feeds and timelines so as to put a good voice into the forum.

A few weeks later, I officially launched Twitter and Facebook accounts for Campus Ministry. Slowly but surely, the followers and likes piled up.

When news needed to spread of the need for ministers at Mass, the time and place for the next Student Ministry Team meeting, or the deadline for leadership applications, I would put in an announcement to go out over the PA; I'd post signs around school and outside my office; I'd tell students who I thought would be interested and have a conversation with them; I'd write up letters or notes and share them with students. Now, I also posted the news and information on Twitter and Facebook.

And I can't tell you how much more effective this made the overall grapevine.

A year later, my Campus Ministry is now on Instagram, too. #Selfiesforjesus was a smash hit  during Orientation days as students waited in grueling lines for ID pictures and counseling's schedule help; we used it to recruit altar servers, EM's, lectors, and gift-bearers, and we have twice as many now as we did at this point last year. When I assembled my Student Ministry Team to launch a new retreat-planning team, I asked them for a way to publicize joining the group that would create the El Camino retreat; they invented the hashtag #HazElCamino (make the Camino), and we had over 30 people at the first meeting (which is a lot, I swear).

We rightly identify social media as the source of a lot of evil and ills. Last spring, I visited several classes to facilitate a discussion on a shooting homicide in Chicago - a 13-year-old girl killed another 13-year-old after a disagreement on social media about a boy, even posting a picture of herself flipping the bird with a disparaging tagline indicating her intent to kill her rival. Though my teens were split on whether or not social media does more harm than good, they communicated their awareness of the value of face-to-face confrontation and the importance of knowing which things on social media are important and which are stupid.

Social media functions best when it's a complement to the love we already share in relationship. When we're able to communicate in different ways, different expressions, and different specificity than before, we can gain something. As long as we maintain a perspective that our tweets, statues, and Instagrams are not the be-all-end-all, then we're gonna be ok. We need to tell our phones what we want or need them to do - not the other way around.

This is all relevant to our loving but annoying new friend, the ice bucket challenge. Initially, I was confused - what the hell is this? Then, I was frustrated - how the hell does pouring an ice bucket over your head for social media attention help fight disease? Then, I was delighted - oh, you donate $10 if you do it, or $100 to escape the challenge, so you donate either way. Then, I was conflicted - if I get challenged, will I do it? Am I just trying to join the fray or doing something personal?

So, I started to think and read. I found that this was raising huge money for research into a terrible disease, on top of the fact that tons of videos were going mega-viral. I learned that the whole thing started with a man who suffers from ALS. And I knew that I'm the most anti-trend person I know, so if I still felt like I could do it, then I thought there's likely something legit to this.

It all comes back to the Catholic cliché of contemplation and action. Faith calls us to deep reflection and prayer, meditating over the powerful truths of Word and Sacrament, all the amazing things present in our Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Yet, along with that depth of interiorism, we must be people of action, enfleshing that truth and mystery which we find in contemplation.

The #icebucketchallenge is the perfect opportunity to combine these things. We need to look deeply at what we're doing in response to the challenges and suffering in our world - in this case, a terrible, degenerative disease with no cure and great chronic discomfort and pain. With this challenge, we're dumping icy buckets of water on our heads and donating money.

Neither of these actions cures ALS. (read an "con" opinion)

However, these are actions that come with concreteness both for ourselves and for others. Personally, I learned from pieces on ESPN about the origins of the challenge and about a former football player who suffers from ALS, yet continues his work with his old team, not just as a cliched inspiration but as an actual contributing worker. I learned that even since the time of the Iron Horse, we haven't made much progress medically toward fighting this disease.

And I learned that much of the current research to fight ALS leans on embryonic stem cell research. Though the potential breakthroughs are tantalizing, the ends cannot justify the means; embryos cannot be destroyed for scientific research. So my $10 from the challenge when to the John Paul II Medical Research Institute, which is looking to further their work in preparing adult stem cell research in order to pursue a breakthrough in an ethically sound manner.

Still, none of this has cured ALS. Raising awareness doesn't extend or improve the lives of brothers and sisters with ALS. Ideally, it'd be great if we all took an afternoon to visit with an ALS sufferer and spend time with them.

At least, however, through this challenge, I have experienced resolute reflection and multiple actions in a way that I had not before the ice bucket challenge. And the people who are smart enough to figure out cures and remedies now have more resources to pursue the breakthrough that these people need. Sometimes, it takes a social stunt or hashtag or a viral video to grab our attention, whether it should have taken that or not.

Ultimately, my Catholic conscience draws me to filter all of this activity through a different lens - not awareness but rather solidarity. Solidarity is a deeper, faithful sympathy and empathy that binds us to one another. When one member of our world hurts, we should all hurt, for no one is more or less valuable than anyone else. In our Eucharistic lives, we become what we receive - Jesus, the one who perfected solidarity and freedom through perfect obedience to the Father.

Tucked away somewhere in all these icy experiences for all these people - young and old, everyman and celebrity, vain and humble - in a deeper solidarity, at least just within the challenge's grasp or maybe already in their hearts. Pope Francis believes we should answer Jesus' call to solidarity by fostering a "culture of encounter."

As he returned from his recent trip to Korea, he was asked why he visited with families of the ferry disaster that killed hundreds of Korean teenagers - how did it feel? was he worried about people viewing as a political maneuver? His answer reflects the deep holiness in his heart, as a man who really gets what kind of solidarity we all need to embody, in this challenge and in every challenge:

When you find yourself in front of human suffering, you have to do what your heart brings you to do... when you think of these men, these women, fathers and mothers who have lost their children, brothers and sisters who have lost brothers and sisters, and the very great pain of such a catastrophe... I feel that I have to come close to them, I feel that way. That’s first. I know that the consolation that I can give, my words, are not a remedy. I cannot give new life to those that are dead. But human closeness in these moments gives us strength, solidarity.

Unstandard Deviation

The Catholic Mass often catches a lot of heat from a lot directions. Some complain about out-of-touch priests, uninteresting homilies, unengaging music, or the rote ritual of the liturgy, to name a few.

My main frustration with Mass is a bit more uncommon. As a Campus Minister, I become somewhat of a de facto liturgist, and whether I like it or not, I'm the point person to plan and execute many liturgies. I would much prefer to simply go to Mass, rather than keep an eye out for the nervous lector who can't remember when to get up for the First Reading, play traffic cop to my altar servers as we set the altar table, or eyeball the EM's to make sure no one runs out of hosts.

I just want to be there, praying with everyone, unaware of the plans and their timely execution, simply celebrating the Word and Sacrament. It's a worthwhile ministry to facilitate liturgy for my community. And I'm incapable of reclaiming my past ignorances about liturgy. So I might as well do as well as I can for as long as I'm doing it.

So when it comes to Sundays at the parish, you won't find me doing much more than sitting in the pews, being a faithful parishioner. Maybe someday I'll get back into EM-ing or lectoring, but I really try to simply be present at Mass, to find what God has for me and grow in communion with Christ and with others.

It's much like my recent trips to friends' weddings with my fiancee; we intentionally and deliberately spend the wedding day in prayer and celebration for the couple. We try hard to minimize the times when we talk about our own future wedding and instead keep our focus on that couple. When I'm at Mass, I just want to be present in prayer and spirit to what's happening in that liturgy rather than fall prey to liturgical criticisms (or even snobbery).

Recently, I've been at a few Masses where my heightened liturgical awareness perks up at the same time as my deep love of good liturgy. The Sunday morning after our friends' wedding, they invited guests to a Mass in a board room at the hotel. The liturgist that dwells deep within me was a bit worried because the "altar" was just one end of a board table, over which a corporal was laid for the Liturgy of the Eucharist. As concerning as it was that the Eucharist wouldn't be celebrated on a table set aside solely for that purpose, the overwhelming beauty of the Mass was undeniable.

Packed into a board room - hilariously marked with a maximum occupancy of 10 - was somewhere in the neighborhood of 50 or 75 people, pressed against the walls and a few people deep in each corner, including a choir corner, filled with a crowd of singers. With everyone a bit worn out from the day before and so many people staying at or near the hotel, it was a logical gathering point to bring together a group of family and friends who were together to uphold a couple starting a new family.

Even though we weren't in a church, before a tabernacle, or around a dedicated altar, the wall of joyful noise in the songs we sang and the enthusiastic attention of everyone at this cozy Mass manifested the truth of what Mass and liturgy are meant to be. For if liturgy really is the work of the people, this was a group of people gathered and invited by a bride and groom putting a liturgical cherry on top of a weekend of prayer and celebration.

Later in summer, the chaplain with whom I work held a reunion for the rising seniors at our high school who had all been on Kairos the previous school year. After an hour or two of informal social time at his parish, we moved to the Church for an evening Mass. Given the enormity of the beautiful parish church, we decided to just bring everyone into the sanctuary around the altar. About 40 of us sat around the tabernacle to hear the Word and homily. Then we circled the altar for the Eucharistic Prayer and reception of Communion, all leading to a big Sign of Peace at the end of Mass.

In this case, we were in a church, around a dedicated altar, in the shadow of a tabernacle. A stricter liturgist than I might have been uncomfortable with such a crowd in the sanctuary for the duration of Mass, especially since none of us, save a couple of readers, were altar serving or doing Mass ministries. However, in the dim twilight of a summer evening, with a family of 40 gathered to pray together, the intimacy of the candle-lit sanctuary and the tightly packed congregation manifested sacramentally what this liturgy meant to do: namely, as our chaplain put it to these teens spending a summer night in a church, "You're here because this is important."

The physical closeness of everyone to one another and to Christ, in the Eucharist and His Church gathered there, reflected the spiritual truth of what we were doing together. So at 9pm on a Thursday summer night, a candle-lit Mass with its worshippers sitting and standing in the sanctuary did the trick.

These two Masses had a gritty, raw, basicness that fit their moments. I talk about these Masses because the ways in which they were unusual were pretty circumstantially justifiable (at least, so it seemed to me) and actually highlighted the core values of the liturgy, even if deviating from some of its norms.

Here's the tough apart though: we still need to embrace the norm. It's powerful to gather a small congregation up around an altar; it's intimate to pack a wedding guest list into a tiny board room. However, these are not the norms of our liturgy: the congregation should be stationed together and facing the ambo and altar in a way that unifies its worship and recognizes the special space of the sanctuary and the altar for the Word and the Sacrament; we need to be in pews with kneelers, so that we can bend down and embrace the humble reverence that is becoming of the truth of our Eucharist.

And as frustrating as these formal rituals can feel at times, it's only in the strength of their stability that these occasional deviations can be so powerful. Encircling the altar is something that works better with a small congregation in an intimate setting, especially in the midst of a particularly specific bond or context, like a retreat. Gathering in a non-church location for a Mass is something appropriate to those who are traveling or gathered from a distance to a particular occasion.

We need to reflect on these "unusual" liturgical experiences that we have and realize those parts of the Mass that speak most strongly to us and why. For me, I love the small moments that carry potent symbolism.

For example, when the priest mixes a bit of holy water into the wine, there's tons of symbolism. On top of all the water imagery in our Tradition, you have the image of blood and water pouring forth for us from the Body of Christ in the Passion of John's Gospel now made present in the liturgy. You have the metaphor present in the prayer that accompanies the ritual - praying that the water (humanity) may go well with the wine (divinity), as Jesus embodied both humanity and divinity in Himself. Oh, and in the early Church, this was a mainly practical thing because wine was thick/chunky and needed to be diluted before being served to a large group - how awesome that we've reinforced it with this beautiful symbolism!

A great priest and liturgist who came to speak at Notre Dame told us a great story. In his deep, intimidating voice that had a bit of both James Earl Jones and Morgan Freeman in it, he said, "People sometimes come up to me and say, 'Father, I think Mass is boring.' And I say, 'Mass isn't boring; you're boring!'"

Though I don't want to accuse anyone of such a crime, I will remind everyone that Mass only gives us what we put into it. Or more accurately, we only become aware of the fruits of the Sacraments and God's grace when we're living a prayerful, faithful, reflective life. So when you next go to Mass, don't be boring!

Why We Love Sports This Week

So I'm a big sports fan. As much as I think and write about theology and matters of faith, I do spend a lot of time ensconced in sports. My homepage is ESPN.com; when you turn on my TV, it's already on ESPN; and though my DVR is set to record new episodes of Parks and Rec and Girl Meets World, my only real appointment viewing is Chicago sports.

I often stick up for sports when they get slammed in our increasingly populist-enraged society, in which social media loves to fuel widespread anger at sports, sometimes deservedly, other times in a quite shallow manner.

For example, professional athletes are paid exorbitantly - like in Major League Baseball, where the average salary in well into the multi-millions, and the richest player averages a $30M+ salary. As easy as it is to blackball these people for greed or trivialize their being handsomely compensated simply for physical ability, the reality is that they are in the top 1% (even 0.1%) of their field, one with huge revenues fueled largely by average Americans. I know not every elite professional in every industry makes eight figures, but the reality of being the best of the best of the best is a higher paycheck. The conversation on professional athletes and modern society should instead be about extreme pay disparities or the commoditization of athletes.

I like to celebrate what some in social media spheres call "why we love sports today" moments. These are the times when the reality of people dedicating themselves all out to a competitive cause with droves of fans behind them celebrates humanity and what we're capable of when we're working together. These are the things that help balance out the news of athletes' being guilty of domestic abuse, drug use, and other less-than-exemplary behaviors.

Take first, Thursday afternoon - the annual July 31st rite of the Trading Deadline in Major League Baseball. Teams in contention for the playoffs jockey for position, when one win or loss could be the difference between a berth into the postseason and an early plane ticket home for winter. The tough reality of this is that players, whether they've been the topic of rumors and rumblings in the preceding weeks or not, are sometimes pulled from the bullpen, the bench, or even from the field mid-game, as members of their front office alert the coaching staff of an impending trade. As challenging as it is to see a player pulled from their teammates and told to pick up and go to a new team, there's a moment of poignancy among these large, intimidating males.

This year's deadline was being nicknamed "Hug Watch," as the day's game broadcasts included shots of these players moving through their dugouts to hug their now former teammates. My older brother and I were keeping an eye on Twitter as we sat at Wrigley Field during the Cubs game, watching the clock approach the 3pm deadline. Just before the clock struck three, we saw the long hair and beard of a familiar relief pitcher stirring down the left-field line, and we knew James Russell had been traded. As he took his last walk up and down the home team's third-base line, he hugged his bullpen mates good bye, high-fived a line of front-row fans, and made his way through the dugout for good-byes.

Russell: "I have so much stuff running through my head. What am I going to do with all my clothes and everything?"
— Jesse Rogers (@ESPNChiCubs) July 31, 2014

Tough as it is to see players (humans) treated as tradeable commodities, the difficult moment of changing teams comes with a moment of camaraderie and appreciation while these friends say good bye, for now. And on the other side, excited new teammates are usually eager to welcome new additions, guys who will hopefully help their quest for a championship, often giving warm welcomes to these new trench-mates.

Move on to Friday night - the USA Basketball showcase. After a week of training camp, the national team's coaching staff held one last scrimmage to try to decide a 12-man roster from the group of camp invitees for the Basketball World Cup, but things took a dark turn early in the fourth quarter. Paul George was chasing down his probable Team USA teammate James Harden on a breakaway and fouled Harden as he tried to score. George's momentum took him toward the base of the basket, where his leg buckled as it collided with the base of the basket. George suffered a gruesome double, compound leg fracture. I haven't seen the video but am told one should avoid watching it - so no link provided.

As the coaches, medical personnel, and George's family rushed to his side, the players were utterly despondent. Harden was doubled over in disbelief and disappointment at what had happened as he drove to the hoop. Other Team USA players stood with their heads in their hands, bearing expressions of concern as well as confoundment. Meanwhile, the leadership of USA Basketball realized this was just a basketball game and ended the exhibition early. Given George's injury, there was no need to finish the game.

The leadership was also due to announce their final roster decisions on Saturday, but they postponed such announcements indefinitely, as news of George's injury and probable prognosis started to trickle in. Athletes flooded Twitter with prayers and thoughts for George, and the basketball world stopped worrying about cuts and competition for a minute.

Hurt my stomach the moment I heard the news! I didn't want to believe it. Man I need u out there bro!… http://t.co/2ueciPRgtN
— LeBron James (@KingJames) August 2, 2014

While good ol' Mark Cuban exercised his right to free speech to suggest that the NBA needs to rethink a new model for their pros playing internationally, the Indiana Pacers (George's team) and the NBA Commissioner reiterated that this was an unfortunate accident and supported athletes' decisions to play for their countries in these competitions. It was neat to see such rallies of support for a player from all over, despite any rivalries on the court or competition for roster spots on a World Cup squad, alongside a nod to a player's desire to represent his country.

Finally, as the NFL inducted its newest Hall of Fame members this weekend, Buffalo Bills Wide Receiver Andre Reed treated the world to a beautiful moment. Reed gained great fame as half of a great dynamic duo with fellow Hall of Famer, Quarterback Jim Kelly. Kelly and Reed gave defenses fits with their precise short passing game, as Kelly zipped passes to Reed all over the field.

Kelly has reentered the news in recent years, despite being long retired, as he fights cancer. After receiving his diagnosis and having his cancer surgically removed, it recurred. Kelly underwent the usual intense treatments and is hopefully near a clean cancer-free scan again. Reed had Kelly up on stage during his HoF acceptance speech. He reminded listeners of the damage they did together on the football field : 12 + 83 (their jersey numbers) = 6 (points for a touchdown). And to commemorate the many times he had connected with Kelly in the passing game, he got Jim up from his seat and handed him a football.

Reed moved up the stage in a short pattern, and Jim threw him one more pass, a perfect strike. In a moment when Andre Reed stood next to a bronze bust of his head, a symbol of his football-earned immortality, he resisted the opportunity to give a lengthy, self-serving speech that gratified himself and honored few others. Instead, he recognized the teammate who helped him become great, and did so at a time when his friend was struggling. Far from a patronizing moment, Andre and Jim shared a genuine moment of friendship in a deep embrace on the Hall of Fame stage.

. @JimKellyInc to @Andre_Reed83 at the Hall of Fame had to have been one of the most pure moments in sports in awhile
— Patrick Kane (@88PKane) August 4, 2014

This hug - like the ones in baseball dugouts on Thursday - won't be their last. Sports bring people together in a way that few other things can. A group of people rallying around a common cause in support of another group of people can do amazing things. In sports, we love victory, loathe defeat, and rally behind people and stories that captivate us and uniquely unite us.

Our Church is the same way. There are times when the Church struggles, as we fail to live up to the calls of the Kingdom, whether in some of our priests' sexual abuse actions or in our own failures to live out our faith through regular prayer, worship, and service. But when we come together to pray and serve, when our leaders set the right example, we become capable of amazing things.

In these three moments, sports show us how moments of weakness and trial can become opportunities for us to be fully human and unite more closely with one another.