Thanksgiving: This uniquely American holiday, and people-designated holy day, year after year, envelopes us in a home-made quilt of love, stretching clear around the nation, making us one, generation by generation.

From every part of the country, they come, traveling home, prompted by embers of longing, stirred into flames by childhood memories, parents growing older, children who don’t wait for visits to lose teeth or make the honor role. Sacred visits, these. Unique. No family unit the same.

Members gather amid laughter and hugs, with tears that come unbidden, expressing sheer relief against the pain of separations.

In a number of homes, a priest may be a guest, though everyone knows that the unordained hostess is the shepherd, who cajoled a lost sheep to attend, and in doing so, offered a silent absolution for phone calls not returned, gifts not acknowledged, forgotten birthdays. The chair at the table, no longer empty, fills a void in every heart, and prompts an unvoiced blessing on the one who worked the miracle through love and grace.

Before the evening will close, the inevitable question of excommunication of politicians and others for their stand on abortion, will make its way into the conversation.

A dear friend of mine becomes so upset whenever the subject arises, I refuse to discuss it with him. It seems to me, I have told him often, that our God can and will take the aborted baby to Himself, since He loves him or her more than any of us, who have wept over the tragedy. This doesn’t make abortion right; it does allow God to be God in caring for His smallest of creatures.

The bishops’ bringing up the issue, when the sexual abuse of children is still before Catholics so vividly, only ensures that the pews will become more empty week by week. Apparently, the bishops believe that the scandal has disappeared from the consciousness of the flock.

While the spectacle of the pope, cardinals and bishops, kneeling in St. Peter’s Square in sackcloth and ashes, with tears and contrite declarations of sorrow over the abused victims, would go a long way toward healing Catholic Christians’ hearts, most would be satisfied if the bishops would put aside their luxurious robes forever, thereby gaining great respect from their flocks, for they , create a barrier between the hierarchy and the pilgrims in the pews.

By the way, it would be helpful if every celebrant walked down into the assembly for the Kiss of Peace at Mass. Standing above and apart from the people doesn’t convey the spirit of shepherding.

In Tim Unsworth’s book, The Last Priests in America, we meet high-ranking members of the clergy, as well as ordinary white, black and Latino priests, along with recovering alcoholics. There is the pastor who baptizes 300 babies each weekend, and a pastor in a ghetto rectory, where the phone seldom rings and the bishop never visits. There is a priest who sold his chalice to feed the poor; and a priest with AIDS, among the forty-four Unsworth selected.

Then, there is one of my heroes, Bishop William E. McManus, who, upon retirement, rented a modest ranch house in Mount Prospect, Illinois.

The bishop dressed in casual clothes, like grandfathers who putter around the yard. He seldom wore an episcopal ring, and when he did, it was a plain, gold band. His crosier and miter were stored in the closet, along with a box of diapers a mother would be wanting.

His love of children flowed naturally from his work as the superintendent of Chicago’s Catholic schools. At the time the book was written, McManus was befriending twelve women and their children. The walls were covered with their pictures. He tried to teach the women how to manage their money. The main rule was: No credit cards! His main goal was to give respect and friendship.

He also collected clothes for Marillac House, searching for ads in the paper, grabbing up diapers and anything else on sale.

I have this theory that a bishop like McManus probably did more good by his compassion for those women and children to prevent abortions than a thousand excommunications.

We laity may not agree with everything in the Church, but if we keep in mind that this is our Church, that our people are the Church, it will be easier to keep the vision of Christ before us, to be at peace and united with one another on this great Thanksgiving Day, both at the dinner altars in our homes and the Eucharistic altars in our parishes.

In the words of Tiny Tim, “God bless us, every one!”.

Let us also pray for the people who may be alone this day, that God will bless them in a special way, to be convinced of His love and presence.

And a personal word of thanks to you, my dear friends, who visit here week after week. Peace and love. Amen.

Home

Archives