“…he was still speaking, when…”
--Matthew 17:5
The other morning, I went to confession over at Our Lady of
Czestochowa. It had been a while, and it is summer. I guessed it was time for
my quarterly check in with the sacrament.
One interesting thing I think
I know about this church is: there used to be a Charlie’s Hamburger there
back in the 70’s. “Over two-dozen sold,”
was their slogan. There were a few around town, but they are all closed now (I believe). If I remember correctly, the restaurant was in
an old two-story house that also sold antiques. Regardless, the fact that it
was there tells me that this piece of land over on Blalock has always been a
place that feeds the soul. It must be Holy Ground.
I like going to confession over at Our Lady partly because
the priests are Polish and there is the strong possibility that they won’t
fully understand what I am confessing, but also because of the old-fashioned
confessionals. They have the kind with a kneeler and a screen; like in the
movies. It feels not only private, but special, solemn; more real. I know there are people who like going to
confession face to face with the priest, but I have always preferred the idea
of anonymity. Of course it may be a sign of spiritual (and emotional) immaturity,
but I have never gotten comfortable with the idea of a priest knowing exactly how
I feel about Doritos! Tree climbing! and Lana Turner! Just the possibility… It’s more than I can handle. And, I must say I don’t like to see the
disappointment in their eyes when I begin talking about my struggles the 10
commandments (at least 9.5 of them). But
that’s another story…
What I really wanted to talk about was my penance. The priest recommended that I meditate on the
Transfiguration. He recommended either
praying the fourth Luminous Mystery of the Rosary (the Transfiguration) or getting
out my Bible and reading the gospel account (Matthew 17: 1-8, Mark 9:2-8, Luke
9:28-36) and spending some time quietly contemplating it. Well, like any good and overly scrupulous sinner,
I went straight home and did both… But nothing much happened. I wanted to feel overwhelmed with grace and
mercy and salvation and all kinds of luminous stuff like that. Basically I
wanted to feel something transformative… but, like I said, nothing much
happened. I read the Gospel account and sat quietly for a while, my mind
wandering about like an owl in search of a cigarette. Then I went for a walk to the park and prayed
the rosary and picked up a dead fish that someone had left in the road… But,
basically, I felt un-changed. I was
pretty excited about this penance and thought –Wow! That’s a cool one. Man. I
lucked out. But, in the end –I prayed and I meditated and …nothing seemed to
happen. I was still just me… and I was a little disappointed. And that’s how prayer works most of the time
(in my experience).
But… Later (this is almost a little postscript; which may
–in itself—be a sign of some kind) I was sitting in a lobby waiting for my
daughter, reading a book and having trouble keeping my eyes open; I heard the
slapping of sandals coming down a staircase and I was kind of startled
awake. I looked across the lobby (a
large one --with an indoor garden) and I saw these two skinny legs coming down
the twisting staircase slapping loose fitting sandals with each step. The steps sounded like those of a small girl,
half playing with the acoustics; perhaps delighting in the clap of her shoes as
she walked. From my angle and distance I could see a pink gauzy skirt that came
down just past her knees. It looked almost like a ballet skirt my daughters
used to wear when they were very young. As
she came around the landing where the stairs turned back toward the main lobby I
could see it wasn’t a child. It was a young woman; early twenties –I would
guess—and she was walking as so many of us do these days with her face peering
into her phone. She came down the rest of the steps just as loudly, but now the
sound had lost its charm. Now it seemed
like the thoughtlessness of a distracted young lady who couldn’t be bothered to
care whether anyone else was trying to read (or sleep). She was too busy staring at her screen and
emojifying things! I guessed.
And now that I was awake and cranky I was also a little
perplexed by her outfit. Why was she dressed like an eight-year-old? And why couldn’t she just put that phone away
and stop slouching, and walk like a normal person (whatever that means, Old Man Sutter!)…
I watched her walk to the door still staring at the screen
in her hand; her shoes still slapping the tile floor. I watched her open it and
step through, still staring at it. I
watched as she let it swing closed and kept going, apparently oblivious to the
other people who were walking past her to come in. And as I did –my first thought was: of course,
she won’t hold the door for anyone. She’s too caught up in her own little
virtual world to bother about anyone else.
I had made up my mind about this young woman. And then something
happened. As she was walking away, she
suddenly stopped and hurried back. And opened the door. And just stood there…
as a very large (overweight man) walked stiffly and slowly past and through the
door. He nodded and may have spoken to
her. I couldn’t hear from my vantage point.
But I could see her turn her head up from her phone and smile before she
headed on her way.
What I witnessed that afternoon in that lobby was a type of
transfiguration. Like those sleepy
apostles who looked at Jesus and thought they knew who he was. They had been
with him a while and seen how He acted and heard Him speak and even seen Him
heal people, but… Then he revealed Himself in a way they had never
imagined. Me… I was looking at that
young lady and after just a few seconds of observing her, I thought I knew who
she was. I thought I knew what I was seeing.
And that judgmental voice in my head just kept speaking. But, then she turned around and opened that door and… I too saw something I
had never imagined.
Shut your mouth, Mr. Sutter... and open your eyes. There is more to God's world than you could ever imagine.
In my experience with the Lord, that is exactly how He
works. If I am acting all holy, and looking
for a reward, nothing happens. But, just
when I am feeling exhausted and ready to give up on God, He comes clumping down
the stairs in a pink ballet tutu looking like an overgrown 8-year-old. When the priest gave me that penance, I had
been kind of excited. Because I thought it was a sign from God. And I guess it
was. But, just not in the one I had expected. And yet, if I hadn’t gone to confession that
morning, if the priest hadn’t given me that penance, and if I hadn’t gone after
it like a dog after a bone, I wonder --would I have been ready to witness what
I saw? Would my heart have been open to that little quiet moment of
transfiguration if the seed hadn’t been planted by a priest I never saw sitting
behind a screen in a little old fashioned “closet” (with a kneeler), on a
weekday morning, in a Polish church in Houston, Texas? I wonder…
One thing I know for certain; somewhere along the way, I must
have been on holy ground. But isn't that true everywhere? I mean, think about who made it.
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