"Sanctuary"

JMJ.  Forty-two years ago I was serving in our Navy, which like the rest of the country was embroiled in a little fracas in southeast Asia.  The name of my ship was the USS Sanctuary, a hospital ship ported in Da Nang.  We'd sail out every three days or so and steam up and down the coast, waiting to bring helos aboard with wounded soldiers and Marines.  For the wounded, bleeding, and dying she was a safe haven, a true sanctuary from the horrors of combat.

We still need sanctuary.  There is a war a-waging around us more frightful that that of Iraq or Afghanistan, Viet Nam, or Korea.  It is a war of good vs. evil and it's being fought by men and women who look just like you and me both in the cities and countryside and on an invisible plane where the cheer-leaders are angels and demons. 

But in war, unlike children's games, there are precious few places of safety, few places to rest away from the conflict unseen around us.  Except Church, of course.  Within the tabernacle of a Catholic Church or chapel the Prince of Peace waits patiently to refresh our lagging bodies and spirits.  In a smaller way, Tilma, too, is a place of sactuary.  For a short time one can leave behind the cares of life and the toil of battling the ungodly.    For a short time the cares of battle are held at bay.

(Added 12.29.11 at a friend's request)  During the Viet Nam war each serviceman was allowed a round-trip flight to the destination of our church (from a short list of choices.)  The idea was to allow one a respite from the daily stress of life in a warzone.  Like all good ideas it worked better for some than for others.  Tilma is like that R&R.  It's a short relief from the daily battle against the culture of death.  One can clear away the mental cobwebs, sweep the decks, and return to the battle with renewed vigour.  For us, the war is on-going.

And that's ok.  For each of us the war's end will come soon enough and we will lay down our arms at the feet of the Divine Peacemaker forever.  Amen.

"Lot's Wife"

JMJ.  I've been meaning to write this entry for some time and I find that I can't put off my procrastination any longer.  One of my favourite activities is mulling over the mystery of the mercy of God.  Mankind's entire history is one long example of His mercy to us, starting with the disobedience of Adam and Eve and ending with the continual misdeeds of yours truly.  We just can't stop messing up.  Bigtime. 

Ok, I admit that I'm human.  [Gasp!]  I sin, confess, and am forgiven.  I sin, I confess, I'm absolved.  An un-ending litany of mea culpas.  I don't mean to keep messing up.  In fact, I'd far rather not.  I guess I'm just naturally paranoid which is why I keep thinking about the subject.  After all, Peter asked Jesus in the Bible how many times we are to forgive and He answers seventy times seven.  Shoot, Lot's wife looked back wistfully once and ended up as a pillar of salt!

I firmly believe that to show our love of God we need to obey Him to the best of our abilities.  I truly do.  But my life before Jesus was fun in a very decadent way.  And it felt good.  That's how Satan tricks us into putting our souls in jeopardy--he makes sin so darned attractive.  Now on the one hand I so want to show my love for Christ and on the other I can't help but look back over my shoulder at what I've left behind.  I made the right decision twelve years ago and there are no regrets--just memories of what I was before. 

That, and a tremendous gratitude to God that He is as merciful as He is or I'd have been a pillar of salt a long, long time ago.