1965 was a very interesting year for Americans. We were all still recovering from the loss of President Kennedy, and the Church was still getting used to the new Pope, Paul VI. That year, word came that he would visit New York on October 4, the Feast of St. Francis of Assisi. The Pope would address the United Nations, celebrate Mass at Yankee Stadium, and visit the Vatican Pavilion at the World’s Fair, all in one day.

In September of 1965, I was in junior year at an all-boys, Jesuit, military high school in Manhattan. I was a rifleman in the regimental color guard. Early in September, we were told that our school had been selected to meet the Pope on the Manhattan side of the 59th Street Bridge. We would be the first unit in the Archdiocese of New York to greet the Pope as he crossed the bridge from the Diocese of Brooklyn. It was exciting. Now, of course, we weren’t actually going to meet the Pope. We would be on the street in uniform to salute him as his motorcade passed by.

We prepared for weeks. We had to be sure that we had sparkling white gloves, that our shoes were spit shined to the highest possible glow, that the creases in our uniforms were pressed as sharp as a razor, that the brass that adorned our uniforms was shining, and that we could stand at rigid attention like the guards at Buckingham Palace. The regiment band practiced the tune it would play when the Pope’s motorcade came into view. The tune was an old one, fittingly called “The Happy Wanderer.”

Early on the morning of October 4, we took our assigned places. Weeks of preparation were coming to an end; soon, we would see the first Pope ever to visit the United States. It was a beautiful clear morning. I was so excited to see a Pope in person on American soil. We stood for hours, waiting and watching. What would he look like? Would he look out at us as he passed by? Would he wave?

Suddenly, before my eyes, there was a blur of fast-moving black limousines, one right after another speeding by, then, just as suddenly, nothing. Somewhere in that blur of fast-moving cars sat the successor of St. Peter. After weeks of preparation and anticipation, I didn’t see the Pope.

In the Gospels we read during Advent, we are cautioned repeatedly: prepare for the coming of the Lord. Prepare, get ready. Be sure you have everything in place. Clean up your act. Straighten out your life.

What are you doing to get ready for Christmas? Shopping for those special gifts? Are you decorating your house with thousands of colored lights? Did you get that perfect tree? Are you planning an elegant Christmas dinner? With all that preparation, don’t blink! You may miss Christmas. It might go past you in a flash like a convoy of speeding limousines. Do get ready, do prepare, but don’t be so busy that you miss Christmas.

Christmas is not simply a celebration of the birth of Our Savior. Christmas is the celebration of Christ coming into our hearts, not in some collective way, but to each one of us personally and individually. We are not a group of well-dressed high school cadets anticipating the coming of a Pope in a limousine. Christ comes to His church, to each and every individual in His church.

So, prepare your hearts with enthusiasm. Be open to the coming of the Christ. Look deep into your heart and examine how ready you are to accept Jesus in your life. Look deep into your heart and prepare to see Jesus active in your life, not just at Christmas but for the rest of your life. Don’t miss Christmas. Christ comes to you; don’t miss Him.

As we approach the last days of the month of October, the thoughts of children and some adults turn toward ghosts and goblins. But from where do these thoughts come? What’s so special about the
end of October?

Most of us know that November 1 is the Feast of All Saints: the day on which Catholics around the world commemorate all the saints, those officially canonized and those known to God alone. So why does the eve of All Saints’ Day summon thoughts of ghosts? We first thank the ancient Celts, and then we thank their Christian missionaries, like St. Patrick.

Strange as it may seem, for the ancient Celts the new year began on the first day of the month they called Samhain (pronounced sow-inn), and the first day of Samhain began on what we would call the eve of the first day. (For us, Samhain is November.) The first day of Samhain was special, not only because it was the first day of the new year and the celebration of the fall harvest, but because it was believed to be the day when the divide between the world of the living and the dead became very thin, so thin that the spirits of the dead could easily slip through and roam the world of the living.

For the Celts, Samhain wasn’t like our Halloween, not in the sense that children dressed up as ghosts and goblins; for the Celts, the ghosts were very real. They were extremely cautious because they never knew if a person they encountered was of the living or the dead. The Celts made sure that food was left out for those who passed between the divide, and no one ever wanted to anger the fairies. For the Celts, the fairies weren’t cute little people found on cereal boxes; fairies were vicious spirits of the dead whose intent was to hurt you.

So where do the Christian missionaries come in? From the earliest days, Christian missionaries would take pagan practices and give them a Christian meaning in an attempt to convert the pagan population. Even our dates for the great feasts of Easter and Christmas were Christianized from the dates of pagan celebrations. Christmas is celebrated to coincide with the Roman feast of Saturnalia. The early Church took the Roman celebration of Saturn and changed it to the celebration of the birth of Jesus. The name Easter is derived from a pre-Christian celebration of the goddess Eostre, a goddess of Spring and rebirth.

Christian missionaries to the Celts took the celebration of Samhain and gave it a Christian meaning. Instead of celebrating the thinning of the divide between the world of the living and the dead, we celebrate the unity of the church militant on Earth with the church triumphant in heaven and the church suffering in purgatory: nothing to be afraid of.

You’ve heard it said that old habits die hard; well, they do. Still held in the memory of mankind is that spooky idea that the spirits of the dead walk among us on Samhain, and you better treat them right or they may trick you.

Hey, is that a child dressed as a ghost, or is it ...?

I grew up in the Bronx in a very Sicilian family so what I’m about to write may be viewed by some as ethnic treason or heresy. Outside of my family circle, the Italian dialect I heard most often was Neapolitan. My Sicilian grandfather, who spoke a dialect few spoke or understood, once told me how he loved listening to the Neapolitan dialect; to him it was rhythmic and lyrical; it was music. Neapolitan was undoubtedly the dominant Italian dialect in New York City.

The contributions of the Neapolitans to the fabric of New York City’s culture are varied and numerous. Beside their musical dialect, they contributed many dishes of Italian food: spaghetti alle vongole, risotto alla pescatora, timballo (pasta pie), gnocchi alla sorrentina, pasta e fagioli, sfogliatelle, and the world-famous pizza, pizza alla Margherita.

The Neapolitans contributed their entire renowned songbook to the world, including O Sole Mio, Mama, Mala Femina, and Torna a Surriento. Neapolitan songs are so popular that the legendary opera star, Luciano Pavarotti, recorded an album comprised entirely of Neapolitan favorites. It was one of his best-sellers.

Among the most memorable and valuable contributions of the Neapolitans to New York City and its environs is their Patron Saint, San Gennaro (St. Januarius), whose feast is celebrated on September 19. During the week-long celebration of his feast, Mulberry Street in Little Italy is closed to vehicular traffic from Houston Street to Canal Street. It becomes an arcade with food and game booths, and thousands of people, from every ethnic group, crowd the street. The high point of the feast is the procession when the silver and gold bust of San Gennaro is carried on high for all to see and for the faithful to venerate. The bust of the saint is festooned with long ribbons, and pinned to those ribbons are $1, $5, $10, $20, $50 and $100 bills. The bills are signs of respect by some and signs of devotion to their special Saint by his faithful devotees.

Most of what we know about San Gennaro is legend and the story began in the 4th century when he was the bishop of the town of Pozzuoli, about 13 miles west of Naples. He was martyred on September 19, 305 A.D., during the reign of the Emperor Diocletian. The legend is that San Gennaro was condemned to death by a Roman judge for supporting two imprisoned deacons. San Gennaro was sent to the arena with the two deacons and two laymen. When the beasts where released, miraculously they did not attack San Gennaro and his companions; eventually, however, they were beheaded, winning their martyr’s crowns.

The principal relic of San Gennaro is an ampoule (large vile) filled with his dried blood kept in the cathedral in Naples. Each year on his feast day, the vile of dried blood is lifted up by the bishop and shaken to see if it will liquefy. If the blood liquefies, it is taken as a sign of good things to come; if not, it is taken as a sign of bad times to come, perhaps war or even the eruption of Mount Vesuvius. This is the miracle of San Gennaro. Whether the blood liquefies or not, the important lesson is not the miracle but his willingness to sacrifice all for his faith in Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

Grazie Dio per San Gennaro e per i Napolitani.

For 12 years after graduating college, I was a religion teacher at a large Catholic boys’ high school in the Bronx. During those years, I was a member of the junior year retreat team. The team was responsible for as many as eight 3-day retreats each year. The retreats were an opportunity for me to get to know many of the boys I had in class and some of whom I didn’t.

On one retreat, I got to know a particular young man (let’s call him Vincent). I didn’t have Vincent in any class I taught, but during the retreat he was in the discussion group I led. For three days we ate at the same table for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I got to know him fairly well.

When the retreat was over, I’d see Vincent frequently at school. He’d often visit my classroom after school, and we’d talk about lots of things, including the retreat and what he might do after graduation. We had a good teacher-student relationship.

Vincent graduated the year after the retreat, and soon after graduation he and his parents invited me to Sunday dinner at their home. Both Vincent and I are from Italian-American families so I had a good idea what an invitation to Sunday dinner meant. That day, I met his parents and sister for the first time, and we spent time before dinner talking and getting to know each other. It was lovely as we sat outside under a grape arbor -- can you get more Italian-American than that? The meal was wonderful and the conversation was relaxed.

During the course of the meal, Vincent’s father (let’s call him John) asked me if I was related to Joe Orlando, the architect. I told him that he was my grandfather who had died several years earlier. Then, John told me this story: John was a draftsman and had worked with my grandfather on several projects. He told me that a good several years earlier, he met my grandfather at the Building Department. Architects and draftsmen spent time there filing plans and obtaining permits. In those days, everything was done on a cash basis so you had to have the cash with you to pay the fees.

When he greeted my grandfather, John said my grandfather could see that John was upset about something. John told my grandfather that he and his wife were trying to adopt a child and that they were a few hundred dollars short of what they needed to finalize the adoption. John said that without hesitation, my grandfather reached into his pocket, took out the money and handed it to him. My grandfather told John not to worry about paying it back and they’d work out something. “Just go and adopt the child,” my grandfather said. This story didn’t surprise me because my grandfather was a generous man.

What shocked me was when John turned and pointed to Vincent and said Vincent was the child he had adopted.

“The good you do today may be forgotten tomorrow. Do good anyway. Give the world the best you have, and it may never be enough. Give your best anyway. For you see, in the end, it is between you and God. It was never between you and them anyway.” - St. Teresa of Calcutta

In 1975, the General Motors Corporation introduced a Chevrolet television commercial with this tag line: “Baseball, Hotdogs, Apple Pie and Chevrolet.” I believe the tag line was intended to summon a return to traditional American values.

1974 and 1975 were years of several memorable events. In August 1974, Richard Nixon resigned as President, the first such resignation in history. The resignation marked the end of the Watergate scandal. In April 1975, after decades of fighting and the loss of more than 50,000 American lives, the Vietnam War came to an end. At that time, we all seemed eager to put the “nightmares” behind us and return to a sense of normalcy. We were ready to get back to the traditional values represented by “baseball, hotdogs, apple pie and Chevrolet.”

Although some may argue, I believe baseball is still America’s game. I don’t think you can understand the American spirit without understanding baseball. A game of baseball lasts for nine innings, but there is no clock, there’s no time limit. As the great philosopher of baseball, Yogi Berra, once said: “It ain’t over ‘til it’s over.” No matter how bleak the situation may be, the possibility of victory is there to the end. Do we embrace perseverance as a value?

What can be more American than a hotdog? I remember taking rides from the Bronx to Coney Island on hot summer evenings just to stand in line with my friends to get Nathan’s Famous Hotdogs. Those hotdogs meant more to us than just food; it meant we were sharing a meal in friendship and hospitality. What greater American values are there than friendship and hospitality?

Apple pie is always the crowning glory of any American meal. It’s a tasty celebration and sweet gift from the earth and the loving hands that made it. And with a scoop of ice cream on top? It’s as American as ... apple pie.

Our popular culture seems to have turned its back on those once-treasured traditional American values conjured up by the ideas of “baseball, hotdogs, apple pie and Chevrolet.” It breaks my heart, but there is something that breaks my heart even more. Just as our traditional American values are held in ridicule and disdain, so are our Catholic values and faith. Although I fondly remember a more innocent time in our history, I’m not some old fogy sitting around calling for a return to the halcyon days of yesteryear; that would be foolish. What I pray for is a culture that recognizes the importance of traditional religious faith and values. I pray for a time when expressing one’s faith is not met with ridicule. We should all pray for a time when we can express ourselves as devout Roman Catholics without the fear of being shamed or attacked.

To bring about that change, we must proudly and publicly profess our Catholic faith. We’ll never change the world if we hide our faith like a rosary in our pocket that never sees the light of day. We live in a difficult and trying time, but our Catholic faith compels us to stand up proudly and courageously, even in the face of ridicule and possible persecution. Put your faith in Christ, and we can bring the whole world to Him.

Well, it’s the 13th of June and graduation season is nearly over. The caps and gowns are ready to be stored away for another year. The congratulatory cards have been sent and received. The parties, whose guest lists were limited by the COVID-19 pandemic, are now fond memories. The photographs have all been taken and stored on a flash drive, and some have even been printed. It has been a great season of celebrations.

This year, I didn’t attend a graduation ceremony; I guess I’m now of an age when those invitations are few and far between. But I was very much aware of two graduations. One was the graduation of the young seminarians of St. Joseph’s Seminary, Dunwoodie, who were awarded their academic degrees. The other was the graduation of the men in the diaconate formation program who received their academic degrees and certificates. These are very special because these graduations result in a commencement.

In the academic world, the term “to graduate” simply means a person has achieved a certain degree or grade of proficiency in an academic field. The word “commence” means to start something new. Whether they are seminarians preparing for ordination to the priesthood or men preparing for ordination to the diaconate, their graduations are leading to something far greater than the mere awarding of a degree; their graduations are leading to the commencement of a new phase in life dedicated to serving God and His church.

Their commencement is their ordination. The knowledge gained through their study of theology was not meant to result in a diploma to be hung on a wall; it was meant as a dimension of their formation, enabling them to faithfully and effectively serve the Church by proclaiming the Gospel message to the world as ordained members of the clergy.

This is a lesson for all of us. It’s wonderful to gain knowledge, but a degree or diploma means very little if it ends up in a frame hanging on a wall, collecting dust. All of us, whether or not we have a degree, should be asking ourselves: What are we doing with the knowledge we have about God? Are we going to let that knowledge wither and die, or are we going to nurture it so it grows? Are we going to put the knowledge we have to good use? Are we going to use it to bring the message of God’s love and mercy to the world?

Jesus’ command was to go and teach all nations. That command was not directed to those with degrees or those who are ordained — it was directed at all of us. Jesus’ was a call to commencement: to proclaim the good news of salvation.

The name Anna Jarvis is not what we would call a “household name.” How many of us even recognize her name? I’d say very few, and yet it is Anna Jarvis whom we can thank for having every second Sunday in May dedicated to honoring our mothers. Anna Jarvis, who was born in West Virginia in 1864, was the moving force behind the first observance of Mothers’ Day, which was held on May 10, 1908, at the Andrews Methodist Episcopal Church in Grafton, West Virginia.

While the idea of celebrating motherhood was not a unique concept, the idea of setting aside a designated day was. Of all human activities, mothering or motherhood is likely the most honorable. I thank God that so many of us live with fond memories of our loving mothers and how much they did to support and nurture us as we grew. The ideal of motherhood is eternal.

Anna Jarvis saw a need to honor mothers and motherhood at least once a year with a special day. She envisioned a day when each mother would receive the honor and recognition due to her. She saw the mother as the center from which all human life and activity emanated. By the time of Anna’s death in 1948, however, Anna had become disheartened by the concept of Mother’s Day. She saw the day being hijacked by the greeting card and candy companies and by florists.

By the time of Anna’s death, Mother’s Day had become a financial and commercial opportunity. Had it lost its true aim: the celebration of motherhood? I don’t believe the true purpose could ever be lost. Yes, like so many other celebrations, Mother’s Day now has a strong commercial element, but, if you cut away all of that commercialism, what remains is Anna Jarvis’ true aim.

We Catholics are very fond of our mothers. For us, the concept of motherhood begins and ends with the ideal presented to us in the Blessed Virgin Mother of our Lord and Savior, Jesus. For Catholics the world over, the Virgin Mary represents the ideal of motherhood and the model against which we gauge all mothers. She gave life to the incarnate God and nurtured and cared for Jesus, her son. Jesus, in the last moments of His life on Earth, turned to St. John at the foot of the cross and gave His mother to John. At that same moment, Jesus gave His mother to us. No matter what the reality is with our own mothers, we have a loving and eternal mother in heaven.

As we celebrate and honor our earthly mothers, grandmothers and godmothers, we also honor our Blessed Virgin Mother Mary, true mother to us all.

If you search the web for the meaning of the Latin word triumphus, you may find the following on Wikipedia: “The Roman triumph (triumphus) was a civil ceremony and religious rite of ancient Rome, held to publicly celebrate and sanctify the success of a military commander who had led Roman forces to victory in the service of the state or, originally and traditionally, one who had successfully completed a foreign war.”

The tradition of a triumphus was to have the conquering general ride in a chariot in a parade, with a slave standing behind him, holding a wreath of laurel leaves over his head and whispering in his ear: Sic transit gloria mundi (the glory of the world is fleeting). We can all recall the successor to these Roman triumphant parades in our own time: the many ticker-tape parades up the “Canyon of Heroes,” New York City’s Broadway.

Today, the Church observes Palm Sunday of the Passion of Our Lord. In two of the forms used at the start of the Mass, a Gospel is proclaimed commemorating what we call Jesus’ triumphant entrance into Jerusalem. (This year it is Mark 11: 1-10.) For Jesus, there was a cheering crowd. There was no chariot, only a donkey on which to ride. There was no slave holding a wreath of laurels or whispering to Jesus how fleeting the glory of the world is; He knew well how fleeting the glory of this world could be. There was no ticker tape, only palm branches.

In the view of this crowd, Jesus did arrive triumphant. He was the great miracle worker who fed the five thousand and preached peace. It was He who healed the sick, gave sight to the blind and made the lame walk. It was He who raised the dead. It was He who proclaimed that the Kingdom of God and salvation was near.

Those in the crowd cheered for Him, believing He would finally free them from the oppression of the invading Romans; of course, they were wrong. Jesus’ victory would not be like that of a conquering Roman general. Jesus’ conquest would be different and totally predictable. His conquest would be far more significant than any mere military victory. They would have to experience a week of trial, tribulation, pain and death before they would witness His true victory.

Perhaps because Jesus did not fulfill their expectations, this same crowd changed. Five days after the triumphus, the crowd of cheering admirers was transformed into a mob clamoring for Jesus’ execution. The same crowd that welcomed Him with joy would, in their anger, watch Him suffer and die. Eventually, they would witness His execution in what the Romans considered the most dishonorable way -- death upon a cross.

Today, we know that Jesus did triumph and is the conquering hero for all times. Today, we know that Jesus conquered that which only the Son of God could conquer: sin and death. Jesus’ message was fulfilled in His sacrifice on the cross and His triumph was His resurrection.

Today, for whom do we cheer and wave palm branches? We cheer and wave our palm branches for Him who is most victorious. We wave our palm branches for the Savior of the World. Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord.

Those of us who attended Catholic grammar school in the 1950’s and 60’s remember the challengng task of memorizing the questions and answers in The Baltimore Catechism. The definition of sacramentals stated: “Holy things or actions of which the Church makes use to obtain for us from God, through her intercession, spiritual and temporal favors.” Unfortunately, some of us have come to think of these holy things as talismans or items that bring us good fortune. There is no intrinsic power in a sacramental; the worth of it rests in that it represents the prayerful intercession of the Church.

This Wednesday, the Church observes the start of the Lenten season with the imposition of the ancient symbol of ashes on the foreheads of the faithful. The blessed ashes are among the most cherished sacramentals offered by the Church.

I have always been amazed by the number of people who wait in long lines to be marked with ashes on Ash Wednesday. My first experience of Ash Wednesday as a deacon came in 1990 at The Church of St. Agnes on East 43rd Street, Manhattan. Given its location near Grand Central Terminal in midtown Manhattan, St. Agnes was an enormous center for the distribution of blessed ashes. The lines began to form when the church doors opened for the first Mass at 6:00 a.m. and continued right through until the end of homebound rush hour. Two lines of the faithful ran up the center aisle, out the front doors of the church on to 43rd Street, split east to Third Avenue and west to Lexington, and then north on each avenue and around the block.

The line seemed endless. By the end of the day, those of us who were distributing the blessed ashes experienced numbness in our legs and pain in our shoulders from reaching up to the thousands of foreheads we marked with the sign of the cross. The mood of the day was frenetic; the people coming to church seemed resolute to be marked. For some, it seemed as if they thought they would suffer damnation if they were not marked with ashes.

Please don’t misunderstand me, I rejoice on Ash Wednesday when so many faithful Catholics come to church with the desire to publicly demonstrate their faith and willingness to repent by receiving ashes; what troubles me are those few misguided souls who come only for the ashes, as if the ashes alone will in some way save them.

Again, there is no intrinsic power in the ashes; they are not magic dust. Whether we wear the ashes on our foreheads or sprinkled on the tops of our heads, the ashes should be for us — and the whole world — a sign, the sacramental, of our desire and willingness to repent: to turn our lives away from sin and to live our lives anchored in the Gospel by prayer, fasting, and receiving the Sacraments of Reconciliation and Holy Communion frequently.

Repent and believe in the Gospel. Amen.