I am almost gave up the blog again this morning. Sadly, readers, especially men, are becoming more and more aggressively evil in comments, comments which you, dear readers, never see. The various evils range from expletives to personal attacks to anger.
I suppose it would not matter so much, but I am completely isolated, living most of the time alone, without a protector or a community. This means all I can do is walk into Gethsemane and sit with the Lord, awake in suffering with Him.
What renewed my courage today was a sermon and simple talk with Fr. Canice Azuoma, who spoke on the Gospel and First Reading from his heart.
He, a Carmelite priest, told this tale. He grew up in Africa, and his grandfather worshipped many gods as well as worshipping his ancestors. His practices of worship included some bad things. When Fr. Canice's father was a child, he heard the bells of the church nearby and was curious. So, this young child went into the church and saw an Irish missionary priest teaching small children. The priest talked about Christ and the call to have courage and believe. Fr. Canice's father was so moved, he decided to become a Christian. And, the child was so excited after this initial meeting, that when he went home, he told his parents of his new faith.
The father of this child reacted severely, forbidding the child to ever return to the church. He said this new religion was strange and not part of their people's heritage. But, the next time the bells rang, the boy returned, again, and again, and again. His mother stood between him and the anger of his father, but the persecution in the house became so intense, the boy eventually had to leave.
Many, many years later, the grandfather became very ill and was ignored by his own family in his illness. But, the Catholic son returned and visited him daily, moving in again, finally, to take care of his father.
One day, the old, dying man said to his son, "I want the religion you have. I have seen how it has affected you." The son replied that the old man would have to be baptised. The dying man said, "I want that. I want baptism". By this time, there were no priests in the area. All were far away. The son went into the kitchen and filled a bowl with water. He came back into the bedroom and baptised his own father, who died within a few hours.
Fr. Canice told me to have courage. He told me that my suffering was for my son, who is going to be a priest. He told me that the suffering of his father all those years of being estranged from the family was a gift for Father Canice's own priesthood.
I know this is true. As Father Canice blessed me today, I knew I could not give up the blog. The suffering is like a heart pumping life to another young person far away in the seminary. So be it. Divisions in families are so painful, one does not think about what is missed in love and support, but none of this really matters. What matters is forgiveness, love, and the courage to spread the Good News.
"Do you suppose that I am here to bring peace on earth," said Christ in today's NO Gospel. His own passion is ours, if we accept it. We cannot see the Resurrection, but neither did Father Canice's father expect his own father to rejoice with him in heaven. God is good.