Feast of Christ the King

2 Sm 5:1-3

Ps 121:1-5

Col 1:12-20

Lk 23:35-43

The Feast of Christ the King is a relatively new one.  It was added to the Church calendar by Pope Pius XI in 1925, a mere ninety-one years ago. The Feast was originally set for the last Sunday in October, It was moved to the 34th and last Sunday of the Church year in 1969.  Next Sunday, first Sunday of Advent, we begin a new liturgical year.  It is significant that this feast  is placed in such a high profile position, a kind of liturgical New Year's Eve.  While the first and second readings are marked by images of kings, the Gospel requires some thought to fit into this feast. 

The first reading details how the tribes of Israel anointed David as their king.  He was named king because of his ability to rally the Israelites and conquer their enemies.  As we heard in the reading, "it was you who led the Israelites out and brought them back."

The kingly images in the psalm are more subtle.  However we hear of the strength of Jerusalem, the royal city in which stood the thrones of judgment of the house of David. 

The second reading from Paul’s letter to the Colossians appears in the Liturgy of the Hours.  It is a song of praise and gratitude to God for placing us in the Kingdom of his beloved Son. The Son who, through his obedience to the will of the Father,  redeemed us from our sins. 

Then we come to Luke’s Gospel.  What kind of King is Luke describing?  A king who is mocked by the criminal crucified next to him?  The King of the Jews  as on the sign Pilate wrote INRI: Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum?   A king hanging naked in front of a crowd?  A king undergoing the most shameful form of execution possible?  What King is this?  What kind of King is this?

He is the King we are called to follow. He is the King we are called to follow, if we choose to follow Him.  If we have the courage and strength to follow Him.  The choice to follow Jesus the Eternal King is both conscious and deliberate. It is a choice we must make and renew on a regular basis.  We either choose to follow Jesus or we don't.  There is no alternative.  There is no partial commitment.

The Spiritual Exercises considers this King in two meditations. In the first meditation one is instructed to consider the general characteristics of a good earthly king.  What is a good earthly king like?

This good king isn’t sitting on a throne. This good king isn't surrounded by a court of hangers-on. This good king is down in the dirt and dust with the rest of the people in their struggles.  The good king is shoveling mud after a disaster, not standing around in a starched shirt and white construction helmet waiting for his photo to be taken. He isn't playing golf during times of crisis.

Then, one is instructed to contemplate Jesus the Eternal King.  The King who took human form.  The King who walked in the dust and the mud.  The King who was wet by the rain and buffeted by the wind.  Who sweated and shivered.  Who learned carpentry.  Who was loved by many and hated by others. The  King who lived just as we do.  And the King who died just as we will. 

This King is Jesus who tells each of us, “Whoever wishes to join me must be willing to labor with me.”  At times that labor is neither pleasant nor easy.  While it is said “His yoke is easy and His burden is light”  it doesn't always seem that way.

In the second meditation Ignatius instructs the individual to meditate on the choice that confronts all who call themselves followers of Christ.  Under which of two standards under which of two symbols or flags, is one going to choose to live and die, the standard of Christ or the standard of Satan? Do we choose Satan and the world or do we choose Christ and the Kingdom of God?  The banner of the evil king of the world or the banner of the Eternal King of the Universe?

The choice is yes or no.  The choice is black and white.  No one can have a foot in each camp.  One’s loyalties cannot be split between the two.  It is not a matter of following Jesus when it is convenient, or saf. It is not a matter of following Jesus  when it is socially and politically acceptable and following Satan when it is more expedient,  or if one needs to appear sophisticated at a cocktail party in Washington, D.C., or New York, or Ljubljana.  The choice is one or the other. It is not a matter of political correctness.  It is a matter of faith. It is a matter of commitment.

St. Ignatius did not create anything unique with these two meditations.  Throughout the coming liturgical year Jesus will present us with the same choice many times over, in different ways.  Do we follow Jesus, the Eternal King, or do we not?  Just as we make resolutions at the end of the old calendar year on New Year’s Eve, today, on the Feast of Christ the King, the final Sunday of the Church year and the cusp of a new one, we have the opportunity to choose.  We can choose either to live and perish under the false values of this world of materialism, sensuality, and the culture of death, or to live and die under the banner of Jesus. The King who died to redeem us from sin and despair.

Spent part of the weekend on the Slovenian coast in Piran, a very old city overlooking the Adriatic.  There is a fishing industry there, apparently for sardines.  Saturday was very rainy.  The rain was a gift because I was able to get some photos that would have been impossible with tourists clogging the plaza.  I took over 500 shots.  They will be appearing here for a while.  These are just a few from the three photo outings, one in the rain upon arrival, one at night after the rain stopped, and one early this AM before returning to LJ.

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Two bicycles in front of a house.  Streets are impossibly narrow here.  And cobblestoned.  I don't think any woman in Piran owns high heels.  

Fishing boats looking toward the plaza.  The tower and white building just to the right are quite high overlooking the city.

Walking along the coast at sunrise this AM.

I love silhouettes and fog.  Together they are unbeatable.  A church along the Adriatic.

Copper door on a home.  The texture is wonderful.  Br. Robert  and I had quite a discussion about the role of texture in architecture on the way up.  Br. Robert is a very talented architect who was attending a conference and asked if I wanted to go along.

Fisherman on his boat on Sunday AM.

Speaking of texture.  Shutters on a house.

Six umbrellas, two backpacks and a balloon.  This is why the rain was such a gift yesterday.  

Another typical street.  I do not need a stress test this year (as if I would have one!).  No chest pain while walking up and down these hills?  NO problem. 

Fr. Jack, SJ, MD

An Anniversary

Earlier  today and last evening were a bit unsettling.  Today,  18 November, marks the third anniversary since George Murray, SJ, MD died sometime around 6:00 AM.  I was particularly aware of the anniversary last night while attending a special Mass at the nearby Cathedral of St. Nicholas here in Ljubljana.  Something became apparent in the fifteen minutes in the dim cathedral before Mass began.  That something was that there is no reason to say the prayers for the dead or to plead that his soul find eternal rest.  All that was taken care of at the moment of his death.  Rather, today is an anniversary on which to sing the Te Deum, the Church's great prayer of thanksgiving and praise.  It is time for the Te Deum not because George is dead but in thanksgiving for his presence and ongoing influence in the lives of many. 

I learned of George's death moments after his body was discovered in his chair.  He'd probably been dead for about an hour.  Unfortunately I was racing to the room of another Jesuit who I was to take to Tufts for a complicated biopsy within the next twenty minutes.  It was going to be a very long day there.  As I was hurrying down the hall, preoccupied with finding coffee and hoping that the traffic wasn't going to be too awful (at 6:30 AM), one of the nursing assistants came out of George's room to tell the nurse that Fr. Murray was dead.  I think I was 10 feet past his room.  I went in, confirmed it for myself, blessed him, and made two quick phone calls before heading off to Tufts. 

George's death was not a surprise.  It was sudden but not unexpected. The previous day, Sunday, he and I spent six or seven hours in the Newton-Wellesley ER where he was sent after complaining of some vague chest discomfort.   His enzymes had not risen, there was no evidence of cardiac damage and he could return to Campion.  That was great news.  He hated being in hospital and he really hated  Newton-Wellesley, a place he spent way too much time in the preceding months.  MGH was more tolerable if he had to be in hospital. After we returned and he got settled in his room I went over to mine and got ready for what was going to be a long long day at Tufts   As it turns out I never saw him alive again.

Just before leaving for the city I made two phone calls, one to Cornelia asking her to let the appropriate people at MGH know of his death and one to Manny, a former fellow who was (still is) at Tufts to let him know and ask if I could spend some time in his office once the Jesuit went into the OR.  I did not want to sit in the family waiting room.

I knew I was going to celebrate the funeral Mass and preach the homily as George had asked me to do that when it was apparent that Ned could not.  There were phone calls to make, plans to change, and people I needed to let know including my family who loved him dearly.  During the late afternoon I joined the consult psychiatry sit-down rounds at Tufts.  Manny was struggling to stay composed as he spoke to the students and residents about George's death and what George meant to him.  And then he did something brilliant.  He polled everyone in the room one by one.  The questions were, "What teacher has had the greatest influence on your life?"  "What has that influence been?"  It could be a teacher from any point in one's educational life, a particularly long life for physicians.  The results were fascinating.  There were two other questions, "Is the teacher still alive?"  and if the answer was yes, "Have you thanked him or her?"  If the speaker had not thanked the teacher Manny, who can be intimidating, gave a two word command: Do it. 

There is no greater gift to a teacher than gratitude, particularly after one has left school and realized how that teacher contributed to one's having "made it."  When my turn came  I noted that Manny had already said a lot that I would say about George so I wanted to single out another teacher who, in some ways put me in the position to have met George as one of his fellows.

Mrs. Miltona Klinetob taught eight grade English at Plymouth Junior High School.  She was stern, no nonsense, and good.  One day she gave us a multiple choice exam.  We used the typical cheap paper of the time on which it was impossible to hide an erasure.  The following day was not a good one in her class.  She was angry.  Very angry.  When she looked at the exams there were multiple erasures, changes of answers and so on.  With one or two exceptions, everyone had done poorly.  I was an everyone.   I will never forget she told us that if you are prepared for a multiple choice exam your first choice is probably correct.  Do not change answers unless you have a good reason to do so.  That made sense.  It became my mantra whenever holding a Number 2 pencil.  I'd navigated many exams, SATs and MCATs using her advice to prevent disastrous mistakes.  Don't change an answer unless you know why you are doing so.  This event was in 1962.

During the 1971 Christmas break freshman year at Temple Med  I ran into Mrs. Klinetob, now retired, in Wilkes-Barre.  We chatted for a few moments and I told her my memory of her multiple choice test, her anger, and her instruction to the class.  I assured her I thought of her with gratitude every time I took a multiple choice test.  "Look where your advice got me."  Her lower lip quivered a bit.  I took my leave and never saw her again.  It is comforting to know that I was able to thank her for what seemed to be simple advice, but advice that has taken me through more multiple choice exams than I can remember.

So it is and was for many of George's former fellows.  We frequently thanked him at odd times for a bit of teaching, for imparting an attitude, for forcing us to recognize abilities we didn't know we had, and for teaching us how to deal with the occasionally nasty world of hospital and departmental politics along with so much consultation psychiatry and life wisdom that I don't have sufficient disk space to write about it.  Were he to have charged tuition for his fellowship it would have been worth low six-figures. 

I thought of going out for a beer in commemoration of him.  Over the past two years I've had a Rob Roy, his favorite drink,  on this anniversary but I have no idea how to describe a Scotch Manhattan in Slovenian.  And the weather in Ljubljana this evening is miserably rainy with periodic downpours.  Perhaps there is a beer in the refrigerator.  Will look after posting.  But, no matter what, at some point I will go into the chapel to say the Te Deum for the great gift that George Murray was to an enormous number of people and for his teaching that will continue to influence physicians and patients for a few generations at least.

Hungary, Tired, and Happy

That is not a typo in the title. No homily for the 33rd and penultimate Sunday of the Church year.  Returned yesterday afternoon from a three-day weekend in Budapest where I was a jury member for a two-day student exercise mimicking European Parliament negotiations.  The students were assigned to various political groups and ideologies that ranged from a dozen members to one young man who was the only independent.  On Friday they were given a budget problem to solve whereas Saturday's task was to negotiate four bills that required considerable political maneuvering. It was a fascinating though ultimately exhausting couple of days.  

In my remarks as a juror I focused on the personal, interpersonal and group dynamics, a very different take from the professional politicians and diplomats who organized the annual exercise and summarized the result as a political fail as they were unable to negotiate passage of the bills.  It was fascinating to observe a group of 19 to 25 year-olds begin the exercise in a slightly tentative fashion only to watch some of them emerge as leaders, provocateurs, negotiators, passionately advancing or defending their positions, or fade quietly in the background hoping that they could pass unnoticed.  As I know next to nothing about European or any other form of politics it seemed wise not to comment on that area.  Behavior and personal dynamics, however, are meat and potatoes for a psychiatrist.

Among the most impressive  accomplishments was that the entire meeting was in English.  I was the only native English-speaker in the room (and the oldest participant by 20 years or more. . . THAT was sobering).  Some of the students spoke almost colloquial English whereas others spoke with a certain awkwardness of syntax or pronunciation.  Because they were Hungarian (mostly), Slovenian, Russian, Belgian, from the "Stans", Italian, Indian, and a few other nations, there was no other language option. 

Following the Friday afternoon session two of the Hungarian students took me from the hotel to St. Ignatius College, the 60-student Jesuit residential college in the heart of Budapest (the Pest side) in what is called the University District.  A group of students wanted to hear about the combined vocations of medicine, psychiatry and Jesuit priesthood.  The students asked almost two hours worth of questions that were among the most difficult and well-thought out I've been asked in quite a while.  Afterwards five of them took me to dinner. 

We walked through the district to a nearby restaurant.  The district was alive with activity, lights, and the general TGIF mood of students.  The name of the restaurant was Zappa Caffe.  I looked at the name and wondered what Zappa meant in Hungarian, particularly as the name Frank came immediately to mind.  And then we went in.  Zappa means Frank in Hungarian.  There were murals of Frank Zappa scattered on the walls.  The menu explained, in several languages, that before becoming a restaurant the building had been a concert venue where Frank Zappa gave a concert.  Imagine being surrounded by murals of Frank Zappa at various stages of life while downing a beer and dinner.  The only thing better would have been his and Janis Joplin's music playing during dinner. 

The travel to Budapest was long.  Wayyyyyy long.  We arrived in the city from Maribor at the end of the expected four hours.  We hit Buda at 5 PM and had to cross the river into Pest.  At rush hour. Budapest is a city of 2 million plus.  When I mentioned that part of the trip one of the jury laughed.  However, I would probably respond to a stranger who seemed perplexed after arriving in the middle of Boston rush hour.  Alas, once in the city and looking for the hotel we experienced a massive GPS disaster. 

The hotel was located on an extremely long street.  While the name remains the same the designation changes from Street to Avenue or something to that effect.  The abbreviations for avenue and street are similar.  On our first attempt we found ourselves in the tourist heart of Pest.  A few random strangers gave the students some advice, the GPS was reprogrammed, and we tried again.  Eventually, after a few missed turns etc. we were informed by GPS that we were 200 meters from the address.  Alas, after walking approximately a kilometer in one direction towing our luggage we were told by some kind Hungarians that we weren't close.  Indeed, we were five or six kilometers away in the opposite direction.  Back to the car.  Dragging the suitcases.  Finally we arrived at the hotel and checked in at 7:30 PM.  There was a problem.  I'd been expected at a Jesuit College fundraising dinner by 6.  That didn't happen.  The dinner did.  I didn't.

Because of the conference schedule and the persistent rain  I saw little of the city in more leisurely fashion.  On the way to the college on Friday the two Hungarian students suggested we get off the subway one stop early and walk through the area.  We got to the exit stairs to be greeted by resumed rain.  One of them used a mild English epithet so properly and with such perfect intonation that I congratulated him.   

As this was a working weekend it is obvious I have to return to Budapest, ideally in the spring, with the camera, a tripod for nighttime photography as the city is spectacularly lit at night, comfortable shoes, and a good map.  Wandering through the University District at night alone could fill several hours of non-stop shooting alone. 

And yes the food and beer were very good. 

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The Archbishop of Ljubljana, third from the right with his secretary to his right,  had lunch with the community.  About half of the community was present for midday prayer with the rest arriving by lunch.

The community is attached to a large retreat house.  The cook is very good.  She pays attention to presentation at all times.  This was the appetizer.

Ljubljanski Grad (castle) courtyard on a rainy day.

The view toward the north from the parapet.

The view to the west (I think).

Canon within the castle.

Ivy at the castle.  The overall effect of the autumnal color change was a bit more pastel than the screaming reds in Vermont.  

+Fr. Jack, SJ, MD