Live-Blogging Kairos: Getting Started

Being a Campus Minister, I go on a lot of retreats. And though my preference would be to enter into them as fully as I can, the duties of supervising/chaperoning, or sometimes directing, can preclude me from that fuller investment.

I am here at a retreat center with my school's chaplain, who directs our Kairos retreats, another teacher who drove our supply car, and the seven student leaders who are tending to the final particulars - hanging room signs, setting up our meeting spaces, etc. This is my third Kairos of the year, in addition to a senior overnight and three school-day retreats.

For those who need a little introduction, Kairos is a four-day retreat named after the Greek word for "God's time." The concept of God-time rather than calendar-time/clock-time calls Kairos retreatants to embrace timelessness, to give up clocks and cell phones, and trust their leaders as they spend four days and three nights investigating relationships with self, others, and God. The extended length coupled with lots of community building leads to deeper trust and openness between teenagers than in everyday life or even than on other retreats.

I went on Kairos as a senior in high school, and then led it later that year. As a teacher last year at a high school in California, I went as an adult leader, and later in the year, I directed a Kairos, completing the Kairos superfecta. This year, I find myself in a new role I barely knew existed - somewhat of a deputy director.

I am working in support of a chaplain who has a wealth of knowledge, wisdom, and experience directing retreats, specifically Kairos retreats. He does a fabulous job when he can be with us, but he works only part-time at the school, spending most of his time in his ministry as a parish associate pastor and only coming full-time for the retreat itself. To keep things rolling strong, I am deputized to do a small-group training workshop and a talk-writing workshop with our leaders as part of their preparation; then on retreat, I sort of sit at his right hand and do some of the auxiliary errands to move things along. I am the Kairos first mate, hearing my chaplain's comments and concerns and helping plot the best courses of action.

Meanwhile, I still give a talk and still am part of a small group in support of a student leader. And more importantly, I'd love to be mingling with the students and getting to know them in the context of this immersive retreat. I am pulled between two worlds, two necessary and central ministries, and as a result, gain a new view of Kairos.

This perspective of a deputy director, so to speak, is simultaneously frustrating and enlightening. I bear little to none of the responsibilities of steering the whole ship but am involved in all of the minutiae and scrutiny. From this viewpoint, drawing also on the six Kairos retreats I've already experienced, I am going to attempt to share some of my thoughts as they arise at the end of each of our four days on Kairos. I appreciate the irony of coming to my laptop on the evenings of a retreat, but given my repetitions through this process and the value that writing holds for me as a processing tool, I think it's fitting for where I am personally and as a pastoral minister. Hope you'll enjoy!

A brief reflection to begin: this morning my stack of Kairos retreat permission slips contained 39 forms, one short of the holy grail of completion. Despite an announcement yesterday and the form's directive that it be turned in last week, one student remained delinquent. Then this morning, mere minutes before the bell rang to start the day, in he walked, permission slip in hand, to complete the total set. What glory indeed.

Meanwhile, in the past few days, 3 of my 57 seniors turned in their forms for their retreat, coming up at the end of the month. Their form is due 10 days from now, yet three of them saw fit to get it in and done early. What delight it brings a ragged minister to see such initiative.

I couldn't help but think of Jesus and the Lost Sheep. The shepherd loves his whole flock, but will readily set the 99 aside that remain nearby to seek out the one who is lost. Chances are, the kids who turn forms in early will be open-minded and primed to give retreats an honest effort; meanwhile, the last-minute guys might be a bit more scattered and unfocused toward it. At the end of the day, I would have chased him down to get that form, lest he not be able to come on retreat at all. Now that he is found, all the sheep are together, and the shepherd can resume treating them with equal and deep love.

Here on K3, it's almost time to assemble the flock in full and hand them on their student leaders shepherds.

Four Chances at Love

Everyone's families are a little different - different makeups and memberships, different patterns of seeing one another, different frequencies of communication, different habits and traditions. Growing up, my family had the blessing of proximity, for the most part, and we had easy access to our grandparents, never having to drive more than half an hour or so to see them.

I lost my first grandma, my mom's mom, when I was only a few years old. I remember her face a little and vaguely remember being poolside with her at a hotel. I remember kneeling at her funeral and not knowing much of what was going on, yet learning that people don't in fact live forever. Grandma was the grandparent I know only by stories and pictures.

I lost my Papa, my dad's dad, when I was in fifth grade. That fall, he was diagnosed with cancer, I think lung and throat, the result of many years of smoking and being generally stodgy and Irish in behavior. Papa held on for three months before his chemo ceased, and he faded on toward the next life. I remember praying for him in homeroom at school and playing fuseball with friends whose parents had brought them to Papa's memorial Mass and reception.

Thank God, beyond that, I remember Papa pouring brandy over my grandma's homemade Irish Christmas Pudding and setting it ablaze, much to the delight of his grandchildren, awed by pyrotechnics, and to his own mixed emotion, as alcohol burned off into the air rather than heading down his gullet; I remember Papa having a Guinness with dinner and then sitting in his chair - that no one else dared sit in - to puff on his pipe or cigarettes and even let his grandkids climb all over him to push rings out of his mouth by poking at his protruding, smoke-filled cheeks. Papa was the grandparent I know a little better, but mostly by token memories.

I lost my grandpa, my mom's dad, when I was in eighth grade. A metal-in-his-back WWII vet, Papa endured strongly until a couple strokes confined him to a wheelchair, complete with arm-sling and leg-braces to support the side of his body wracked by the damage to his brain. Grandpa moved from assisted living, to intensified assisted living, to a border-line-hospital nursing home. We would make our visits to take him to restaurants he found coupons for, to eat with him at his building where he'd lovingly patronize the young lady waitresses with his comments, or to help sort through the hoarded stashes of junk and as-seen-on-TV products cluttering his apartment.

Thank God, beyond that, Grandpa told us stories from his days in the city and near suburbs, of the characters he met and worked with. Grandpa would call to ask which TV station the Cubs were on today. And as he'd struggle to get in and out of the car or occasionally succumb to incontinence, my dad faithfully supported my mom and her love of her father by helping him from wheelchair to car and back, by pulling up his drawers, soiled or clean, as they drooped off his rear, and cleaning the car-seat when grandpa didn't quite make it to the bathroom.

I was old enough to appreciate that this proud, capable man had built a strong family and welcomed spouses in to marry his kids, that he had survived a war, that he loved to treat people and bring them in for a personal moment or conversation, and that he loved his grandkids, whether they were by his side or pushing his wheelchair. Grandpa was the grandparent that I knew a little personally, even if only at the surface, and appreciated as a person before he passed away.

Since Grandpa died when I was still a young teenager, it was just before I had really matured, especially socially. Visiting him still felt like an obligation, a chore. It was something I did because mom wanted us to - I remember telling mom how much I disliked visiting Grandpa's last home because it felt like a hospital; she told me that she didn't like it either, but she appreciated that I'd come with her. In hindsight, it would have been great to have appreciated Grandpa on a less token and more personal level, but the arc of my life and maturation pointed me to one more chance.

Soon after my Papa died, my dad and his siblings worked with their mother, my grandma "Mena," to help her decide what might be best for her living situation. Mena took advantage of a great early-00's housing market and the prime real estate demand in her area. She sold her home of 40 years and thus secured a great nest egg to support the rest of her life. She moved into a municipally owned senior apartment center where she could live comfortably, safely, and independently.

As she settled into her new digs, my dad made a habit of visiting on Sunday nights. It was an open invite he'd put out there to us around dinner time - "I'm going out to Mena's; anyone who would like to join me is more than welcome." So in no particular pattern, my brothers, mom, and I would take turns making the trek with dad to Wilmette, and in groups of 2, 3, 4, or 5, we'd visit Mena for a few hours on Sunday nights.

Tea, brown bread, and various desserts and cakes were always in the offing. Sometimes we'd bring homework or nap on the couch, but most of the time, we'd simply sit around Mena's quaint little kitchen table. Occasionally, dad would help her sort out business matters, or we'd assist with a household chore. Either way, we'd always chat. Mena wanted to hear our stories, and dad wanted her to tell us hers. In a classically Irish fashion, the teapot and plates were always full. And around those staples, the conversation flowed.

As I grew up, I came to appreciate what these visits really meant. Sure, you could get your fill of hot tea and tasty treats. But the more important part was that Mena, who was stubbornly independent and sharp as a tack, could count on regular visitors who she was utterly delighted to host. I gained a more personal relationship with Mena, and she knew about the ins and outs of my increasingly adult life. I got to play wingman to dad, and dad got to play wingman to Mena. My brothers understood the importance of these visits, too, and my mom, sad to have lost her own parents, really appreciated Mena all the same and delighted in their closeness.

In late January, Mena didn't make her daily morning call to the police, so they came to check on her. Mena was taken to the ICU where they found some bleeding in her brain, and three days later, she passed away, surrounded by her five children.

A few months earlier, we celebrated her 90th birthday in November. It was understatedly lavish, a hearty run of family style food that brought together her five children, 15 grandchildren, a growing web of significant others, and a swath of Mena's friends and acquaintances. The greatness of the party had nothing to do with the fare or the atmosphere - it was Mena's utter delight at the day's festivities. Above all, Mena just always wanted all of her loved ones to be spending time together, and it made her happy when we came together. We did it for her and our love of her.

After dozens and dozens of Sunday visits, I understood that, and I understood her - a sweet, faithful, and loving Irish grandmother who simply wanted to gather a people to herself, to themselves, to God. As my dad said about his wonderful eulogy of her, it's an easy story to tell. I thank God that my parents taught me the importance of hearing these stories.

You only get four chances at grandparents, and each chance taught me something more. Take advantage of every chance you get, and learn more and more the love of God.

Vocation in Our Time

One of my best friends is my non-biological little sister, who I met when she was a senior and I taught at a high school in California last year. Now she's a freshman in college, but we keep in close touch. One of the great privileges of being her friend is that she shares her intellectual curiosities with others, seeking open dialogue and debate as she learns.

Recently, she sent me a short story that her philosophy professor had her class read and react to. She asked if I'd read it and tell her what I thought. The story presented a descriptive, complicated scenario in which the reader has to decide how to respond to the apparent evil in this fictional small town. I did a scan/skim of the story and tried to extract the basic points to spell out my response, which I wrote out in a short paragraph.

She replied, saying my comments were interesting, and the included her submission to the professor. Her thoughts echoed some of mine but went leaps and bounds beyond, showing a carefulness of thought, an inner deliberation. She had read the same passage I read but engaged it with greater depth. She took her instinctive first thoughts and dug deeper to see both sides and measure out a nuanced, astute response.

Aside from being impressed with the wisdom and sharpness of a college freshman, I kind of longed for a former time when it was my job to do that. College afforded us such a wonderful opportunity to be unapologetically curious and to engage with that inquisitiveness on a daily basis for course credit. Some days were better than others in terms of work ethic and motivation, but I'm deeply grateful for the time I had as an undergrad to delve into such stimulating questions.

Because of my studies at Notre Dame, because of the friends I made and the circles I ran in, I became interested in so many things - theology and spirituality, political science, especially presidential politics and leadership, history, and music, to name a few. Some people get intensely interested in a few things, but I am the type to be really interested in a bunch of things. Ultimately, I had to settle on a career, and I'm a few years into trying my hand at Catholic campus ministry and education.

I think the challenge for our generation, or at least for people who cast a wider net, is that we do have to pick something. At the end of the day, I can't be a political scientist, a historian, a musician, and a campus minister - at least not all at once. For my career, for my 9-5, if I want stability and the chance to really grow in specific ways and gifts, I needed to pick something and go for it.

For people with more intense and narrow interests, is it easier? If you're a numbers guy and you go for broke with actuarial science or engineering, does that satisfy a bigger slice of your curiosity pie? I'm not sure.

I do know that alongside a full-time job and the hobbies that come with it (for me, campus ministry and theological/spiritual reading), there isn't a ton of mental energy or space-time for those secondary curiosities unless I'm really anal and surgical with my time. They still happen, and they still stimulate critical thought in exciting ways. However, I read my little sister's words and delight in a different phase of life when one could really fixate on an abstract philosophical question and spend time walking those thoughts back to applied reality. A doctoral degree isn't in the cards for me, so I'll just wistfully delight in nostalgia.

I think for our generation - for whom it's rarer to see people specialize into very specific careers and sustain those careers for decades on end - it will be harder. Our wide-reaching curiosities and wonderments sprung forth from more open-ended formation and education, which is a great gift.

Now as we grow, and as we try to embrace the chance to use and grow our gifts making a difference for people and their needs, we should rejoice in the medium we've found to try living our vocations. And while we do it, and maybe struggle with the ongoing investigations, I think of the advice I got from mentors last year as I started to teach, and the verb in this sentence can be adjusted according to one's vocation: "Don't just teach what you know; teach who you are."

Catholic Schools Week: The Saints

Below are some brief bios of some saints and the roles they played in furthering Catholic education. I wrote them to be shared over the PA, one per period, on Monday of Catholic Schools Week to begin our celebration of our Catholic identity.

Big thanks go to Notre Dame Vision and the awesome bios in their journal, Catholic Online, and the various websites of these religious communities. All of them were used in part toward the biosI compiled below.

MAJOR FIGURES IN CATHOLIC EDUCATION

Jean Baptiste de la Salle

At the beginning of each class period today, we celebrate Catholic Schools Week by learning about a major figure in the history of Catholic education and praying for them to watch over Bishop Noll and Catholic Schools everywhere. To begin, let us first remember St. Jean Baptiste de la Salle, patron of all teachers.

While serving as a priest at a cathedral in his native France, Jean met someone who was establishing new schools for poor boys, and it changed his life. Jean became the leader of this project. He built a house to live in together with the teachers, the beginnings of what is today called the Christian Brothers. They tried innovative new teaching methods and insisted on educating children regardless of their ability to pay tuition.

Their new system of schools grouped students by ability, integrated religious teaching into other subjects, and focused on preparing teachers. Today, the Christian Brothers operate 78 schools across the US, the most of any religious order. In fact, the Christian Brothers once ran Bishop Noll. Three different brothers led the school for 7 years, from 1962 until 1969.

St. Jean Baptiste de la Salle, pray for us.

St. Ursula & St. Angela Merici

St. Ursula was a 4th century martyr, who we don’t know much about. Her and her companions were honored with a basilica in Cologne, and her legend grew over the years. In the 16th century, in Italy, St. Angela Merici was dissatisfied with the options for women - get married or enter a monastery. She formed a new community of women to live the Gospel in the world and help all women realize their dignity. St. Angela chose St. Ursula to be the patroness of her community.

Over time, the Ursuline Sisters spread throughout Europe and then came to North America, too. They now serve in Missouri, Louisiana, Texas, Illinois, and Minnesota. They operate several all-girls Catholic schools and continue to work in St. Angela’s mission of affirming women’s dignity.

Sts. Ursula and Angela, pray for us.

St. John Newmann

John Neumann was born in what is now the Czech Republic. When he was 25, John came to New York where he did missionary work. He joined the Redemptorists, a Catholic religious order, and became its first member to profess vows in the United States, continuing his missionary work in Maryland, Virginia and Ohio.

John was next appointed Bishop of Philadelphia. There, he organized the parish school system into a diocese-wide system. The new structure increased the number of students going to the schools almost twentyfold in a short time. St. John drew many teaching communities of sisters as well as the Christian Brothers into the diocesan system to shepherd the huge number of students. John Neumann was the first American bishop to be beatified and was then canonized in 1977. Because of his work in Philadelphia, Catholic dioceses gained a model to organize their resources in support of Catholic education. May he hear the prayers of the Church as our dioceses struggle to keep schools open so we can help people learn.

St. John Newmann, pray for us.

St. Elizabeth Ann Seton

St. Elizabeth was born into a wealthy New York family in Revolutionary times. She married and had five children with her husband before he fell ill with tuberculosis. They traveled to Italy so he could rest and get better, but he passed away. Elizabeth and her children then moved in with an Italian family who taught them about Catholicism. When they returned to America, they went to Baltimore and joined the Catholic Church, which angered their family friends, who refused to help Elizabeth and her children.

In Baltimore, she met a priest who invited her to open a Catholic school for girls. She accepted and worked alongside other women to get the school started. This group of women began the Sisters of St. Joseph. The bishop approved their community, and Elizabeth became known as Mother Seton, leading the sisters in their education work. Her order grew, and many communities sprung up to further support Catholic education. Mother Seton’s schools formed the foundation for American parish schools, and she was canonized as the first American-born saint.

St. Elizabeth, Mother Seton, pray for us.

Mother Frances Xavier Cabrini

Frances began her career as a school teacher in Italy. One day, a priest invited her to begin a religious order, and in 1880, she formed the Missionaries of the Sacred Heart. After gaining the pope’s approval, she asked to begin a mission in China, but the pope sent her to the US instead. He wanted her to serve the many Italian immigrants there.

Frances and her Missionaries went to New York City, home to 50,000 Italian-Americans who struggled to make money and find a welcome, even in the Church. The Missionaries ran schools, hospitals, and orphanages in New York City, and their community began to spread throughout the US and beyond. Mother Cabrini set the example in this country of Catholic schools reaching out to immigrants and marginalized people to give them a home where they can pray and learn.

Mother Cabrini, pray for us.

Mother Theodore Guerin

Mother Guerin is originally from France, where she was born and became a nun in the Sisters of Providence. Her order wanted to start a new community in the United States and sent her to Indiana to be their superior. When she arrived, she noticed there were very few schools in the area and felt that young girls especially needed an educational opportunity. She helped found St. Mary’s-of-the-Woods in Terre Haute, the first Catholic women’s college in the US, at a time when colleges excluded women.

Mother Guerin went on to found schools in Jasper, Vincennes, Montgomery, Madison, Fort Wayne, and Evansville, and even opened pharmacies and hospitals for the poor in Indiana as well. Indiana was still a young territory with great needs, and Mother Guerin laid the foundations for this state to receive Catholic education. Her work helped give new opportunities to countless women and grew the Church in Indiana.

Mother Guerin, pray for us.

St. Ignatius

St. Ignatius was a soldier in the Spanish military. When his leg was shattered by a cannonball during a battle, he took to reading in his hospital bed about Jesus and the saints. After further contemplation on a mountain retreat, Ignatius began studies in Paris to become a priest. He befriended St. Francis Xavier, Blessed Peter Faber, and a few others, who together became the first Jesuits, the priests of the Society of Jesus. They devoted themselves to the pope’s missions, which included missionary work in India and China and educating the Church by starting schools.

500 years later, the Jesuits have become world-famous for their commitment to Catholic education. Their priests have spread their mission of education globally, founding schools,  colleges, and universities in over 30 countries. The Jesuits work in the model of their founder St. Ignatius, who encouraged his friends to find God in all things, through daily prayer that examines how your day went and searches for the high and low points. St. Ignatius’ Spiritual Exercises are the foundation of much of Christian spirituality, and their structure is the basis for the Kairos retreat that is done at Bishop Noll and other schools across the country.

St. Ignatius, pray for us.

See for Yourself

The cold snap that is now beginning to lift brought a lot of things with it.

Everyone's weather apps showed unbelievably low temperatures and crazy numbers in the forecast (above is what we're looking at right now, on the other end of the VORTEX!). People discovered that boiling water evaporates instantly in such cold air. And news stories and online articles warned us that exposed skin could almost instantly become frostbitten in some places, that car tires and engines could fail in the cold, and that people were stranded on roadsides after spinning out or getting buried in the ice and snow.

Monday, I sat in my apartment, with school called off where I work, alongside my girlfriend, whose graduate school classes were cancelled. And despite all of this, we wondered, "how bad is it really outside?" We looked out the windows and saw more people than we thought we'd see, walking or driving despite the chill.

Even with all the warnings regarding the weather, we still wanted to go outside, just for a little bit, to see what it was really like. And isn't that so human?

The waiter puts your plate on the table and tells you it's hot, but you still touch it. Your friend tells you their food tastes weird, and you want to try it. Your buddy tells you about a nasty knee injury from a football game, and you jump on Google to track down the video and watch.

Even when we're cautioned about potentially dangerous or painful results and consequences, we take a swing anyway. For whatever reason, as humans, we're wired to want the experience for ourselves. We want to take in, with as many of our senses as possible, the first-hand encounter with a hot plate, weird food, or seeing nasty injuries. We don't laugh as hard at the stories that we're told because so many of them are about "you had to be there moments."

The positive side of this human impulse is our curiosity, our sense of adventure. We're willing to climb a hill and risk injury and exhaustion to catch the view and see what's on the other side. We do experiments to discover new medicines even if the chemistry may be explosive. And hey, someone had to be the first to try that juice that comes out of the pink things hanging of off cows, otherwise we wouldn't have milk.

The danger comes when we don't appreciate the risks involved with our inquisitiveness, or otherwise confront and dismiss those potential or likely consequences. This moves some to try drugs or heavy drinking, despite the warnings of hangovers, addiction, and serious medical, mental, and other problems. Some get sexually promiscuous or otherwise overly exploratory in their sexual escapades, despite the dangers of STI's as well as the way it causes us to objectify people and hurt ourselves and others mentally and emotionally.

The key, with all things, is moderation. Gather your proper gear and climb the hill that's a little steeper and taller than you think you can handle, so you push yourself but minimize the risk of injury. Have a drink or two, but don't get close to blacking out, or drink until you're puking your guts out; designate a driver and keep yourself under control where you don't need to force others to babysit you. Pursue and date people that you're interested in, seek a stable relationship, and express yourself sexually with another person in a way appropriate to your state of life.

We have to find ways to satisfy our curiosity without putting ourselves in a position where we'll likely or certainly hurt ourselves or others. If you want to venture out into the extreme cold, you have to bundle up as best you can and limit your time outside. Go get the experience for yourself, and let your senses soak it in so you can own it for yourself. And if you ignore the warnings and dangers, you're bound to get frostbitten.

A Little Push

It's been a while. And as I sorted through the usual half-blog-posts that pop up in my mind as ideas needing to fleshed out in writing, I found myself unable to make the time for my hobbies, something I'd been habitually good at.

I hoped that this Christmas Break would give me the relaxation and rest I craved. As the classic Catholic School employee, despite my concerted effort to oppose the tendency, I have indeed overcommitted myself, in this instance, by becoming the head coach for the freshmen basketball team, alongside my full slate as the Campus Minister. I love coaching, and I love basketball. However, attempting to navigate the "choose your adventure" of being the first full-time campus minister at this school alongside sorting through the chores of head-coaching have left me in the position I wish most to avoid - doing a decent job at a lot of things instead of doing a great job at a few things. My idealism will surely be cut by the realities of adult life, especially as I add my own family to the mix.

Anywho, the relaxation of break is often helped, hurt, or a little of both by time with family. I do not stress out. I even moreso refuse to give into the holiday stress that people seem to seek out sometimes. This year involved juggling my own family and my girlfriend's family, which was challenging but beautiful, as we found ways (even if imperfect) to share our families with each other.

And now after Christmas, the resumption of basketball practice and a mini holiday tournament for the boys tomorrow ratchet the activity back up. And as the first day of the second semester draws closer, the thoughts of what awaits at work and the things I want to tackle in Campus Ministry begin to invade my mind. So when the time is there between family and coaching and the ever-racing mind to seize the rest, I try to do so.

Today, post-morning-basketball-practice that is, this involved napping, eating a snack, heading to Evanston for a Northwestern basketball game and dinner with my dad, and some relaxed time with my girlfriend as the cherry on top of a nice, easy day, before coming home to go to bed - er, write a blog.

On way home from Katherine's, an easy 3-block stroll through Lincoln Park, I was pretty empty-headed. Practice was solid; the NU game was lame; conversation with dad was enjoyable but didn't stir me to deep analysis of any kind. It was a placid saunter over the crunchy snow without anything to stir me to deep contemplation or obsessive thinking.

Then, just a few doors down from my apartment building, I happened upon a couple of guys struggling to get their Jeep out of its snowed-in parking spot so they could head home. A nearby woman was trying to find them a shovel, and another dude and his girlfriend had stopped to help. I joined the fray, and after a couple minutes of strategizing, three of us guys took to the tailgate to push while the fourth dude took to the gas as we all tried to rock the car out of snowy rut. One woman continued to look for a shovel while the other guarded her purse.

After a few attempts to urge the car out of its place, our strength and the gas pedal hadn't done the trick. The woman returned with a shovel, and the car's owner dug around the wheels, while declining her offer of her gloves to warm his bare hands. One final attempt, amid the encouragement amongst of us man-mules, and we helped force the car through the snow piles and out into the street.

I'd love to dramatize the story into something bigger and more colorful than that description, but it was simply a handful of people helping a car escape a snowed-in parking space in Chicago. We each went on our separate ways with a brief smile and words of gratitude. There was no grand gestures, no pretension, no false heroism. No one called attention to themselves for their contributions or the time they gave up. No one complained of the cold. It was simply a few people helping a few other people that needed help.

As someone who is fairly effective as a leader and fairly effective as a team-player/follower, I (surprisingly?) struggle in that area in between. If I am not leading or clearly being led, I can get easily frustrated as a contributor. My tendency is to yield, surrender, or even become indifferent, sitting back to a dangerous extent that borders on or even becomes detriment, or worse, apathy.

This was a moment I needed. True love is that which openly and warmly gives and receives. I was in the right place at the right time to give some help these people, and the opportunity to work with other people gave something to me. I had the chance to simply step in alongside others and lend a hand.

As the beginning of another semester of campus ministry looms, with all its challenges, known and yet unknown, here was a simple and clear reminder of the importance of helping others. And to do so authentically as part of a team, humbly embracing and inviting the help of others, working together.

I read several articles from America magazine on way to Evanston on the purple line, and I felt the wheels turning in my head, urging me to return to my Blogger platform to type again. Then before I could sort through it all and discern the truth speaking to my heart, a simple moment of loving teamwork showed me what I needed to learn tonight.

Imperfecting

Every work day, I leave my apartment around 6:45am, and try to shoot through downtown Chicago and past the Circle Interchange before the rush hour traffic fully kicks in. Almost every day, I make it through downtown pretty cleanly en route to the school where I work in Hammond, Indiana, a few miles over the Illinois state line. The Chicago Skyway is more direct and cuts through the campus, but I take the Bishop Ford/I-94 to avoid a $4 toll each way.

Google Maps says it should take me 43 minutes, and I’m usually to work in a cool 40. Going home can be a different story, ranging from 45 to 90 minutes depending on the day, the weather, and the fickle (in)competence of my commuting brethren. The frustrating thing for me is not the 25-mile drive, the occasional traffic jam, or the construction-induced lane closings. What gets me is the little stuff.

I could make great time from school to 94, from 94 to the Circle, get through downtown cleanly, and be on track for a record time. Then, I’ll get to the off-ramp at North Ave., and it’ll be so backed up that it takes five cycles of the traffic light to turn onto the street. Or I’ll turn off the ramp in a timely fashion, then run into a monster line to turn left onto Sheffield. Or I’ll make it through to my front door in a career-best speed, and then there will be no parking spots within a block, leading to a 10-minute quest for the Holy Grail.

No matter what I do, what mindset I have, what “shortcuts” I think I’ve found, I cannot guarantee the perfect, record-breaking commute. If it’s not construction, it’ll be a traffic jam. If it’s not the parking spots, it’ll be a crash. If it’s not the commute, it’s something holding me up from leaving work. There’s simply no way to perfect the transaction. I can do due diligence in leaving early enough or taking the fastest route, but I cannot control everything. I have to accept that, many times, my commute will be far from perfect.

The same reality rears its head in ministry. Last year, as the liturgy coordinator and sacristan at a Catholic high school, I was partially responsible for completing the episcopal liturgy plan to submit to our diocesan office ahead of the bishops’ visits for Masses. There was obvious pressure to assemble everything competently and lay out a smooth Mass for the bishop to swoop in and celebrate.

Prepare as we tried, neither the form nor the Mass ever was perfect. One of my favorite moments came in completing the All Saints Day Mass form. Seeking to help our underresourced choir and choir director, I suggested the common psalms for Ordinary Time as options for the sung psalm at the Mass. She chose one, and we filed the form. Stupid me – All Saints Day is a solemnity, so no messing with the lectionary, which the bishop’s liturgist pointed out and corrected us (me) on.

When the bishops and their handlers did arrive for Mass, they were always happy to be there, gregarious, faithful. Yet eggshells remained as we undertook the liturgy. The first time bishop came, I was on edge and grimaced at each mistake and misstep.

After Mass ended and I had finished consorting with the episcopal handlers, I decided I’d certainly continue to put in a good effort in all the planning and coordination, but when Mass arrived and began, it was just time for Mass – no more tenuousness or nervousness. The Gathering Song marked the end of that stuff and the beginning of a celebration of Eucharist. Mass was worth more than any points we could score with the bishops’ office. My priority ought to be and became celebrating Mass, imperfect as any “work of the people” will be. Intentionally planned and orchestrated but humbly celebrated by flawed, imperfect humans, seeking to offer praise and worship to God.

Now, as a full-time campus minister, I have the ability to put fuller due diligence into the things I plan and lead, which only strengthens temptation. I might think that the attention to detail, the fastidious organization, and the quality time put into something will streamline it beyond doubt. However, reality never quite unfolds like that. Any retreat director can tell you how fast a retreat gets off schedule and the great elation that hits when one gets ahead.

The beauty comes in that first mistake – when you forgot to dictate a rule in the opening remarks, when you recognize a typo in the leaders’ manuals, when you say the wrong time for something to start or end. Once the perfection pursuit has ended, reality can be embraced. The retreat or Mass or activity can be what it should be, what God calls it to be instead of solely what I envision it to be.

On Kairos this week, it came when my chaplain realized he forgot his alb at school, and when we were a couple journal notebooks short. The moment was early and released us from any delusions of perfection and into a more realistic yet earnest and dedicated optimism.

God doesn’t call us to be successful; He calls us to be faithful. We shouldn’t glorify our mistakes, but rather than become frantic and panicked, we must learn from them and move on, doing better the next time. We must embrace mistakes as an opportunity for humility, a re-grounding in our romantic, human pursuit of seemingly unattainable ideals.

God loves us despite or even because of our imperfections, as long as we are working to grow in relationship to ourselves, others, and Him. May our ministries commit ever more to diligent intentionality and prayerful, reflective attention, as we confront, embrace, and grow from imperfections.