…or more commonly, the flu. I’ve been down since Saturday evening. Even with that I preached on Sunday, attended a wake Tuesday evening, and had a funeral service on Wednesday morning (not my own). Regular posting will resume shortly. If anyone got the tractor’s plate number, please let me know.
He is not a man who strives for a soldier’s pay,
Nor who stains his hands with blood a fool to repay.
Not he who has ample courage and great power,
Nor he for whom life is not worth living longer.
Not he who tears ropes and breaks an iron horseshoe
In his hands, not the one who can twist and wrench too
A steel nail or can stop a mill wheel in its gate
Or who can break up with his forehead an oak plate.
Not the one who breaks with his head somebody’s door,
Nor he who gulps down several gallons or more.
Not the one who manages with luck his duels,
Nor in whose heart no fear of enemy dwells.
Not he whose arm is stronger or can withstand blows,
Not he who can endure considerable woes.
But the one who bore bravely Fortune’s punishment
Or disappointments and who never underwent
Any change at all in good days or in distress,
Him I call a man and thank for his manliness.
Translated by Michael J. Mikoś
Nie to mąż, który żołdem rycerskim się bawi,
Nie to, który nad błaznem pomstą ręce skrwawi.
Nie to, który dość serca ma i wielkość siły,
Ani też to, któremu i żywot niemiły.
Nie to, który postronki targa i podkowy
Żelazne w ręku łamie, nie to, kto stalowy
Gwóźdź kręci albo młyńskie zastanawia koło,
Albo talerz dębowy rozbija o czoło.
Nie to, który swą głową cudze drzwi wybija,
Ani ten, który garców kilka duszkiem pija,
Nie to, który szczęśliwie pojedynki stroi,
A nieprzyjaciela się żadnego nie boi.
Nie to, który duż w ręku albo na raz trwały,
Nie to, który szwank może wytrzymać niemały.
Ale ten, który mężnie Fortuny skaranie
Albo frasunku znosił, a żadnej odmianie
Tak w złym, jako i w dobrym nie podległ, takiego
Mężem zowie i dank mu daję męstwa jego.
Were I to meet you again for the first time,
But in a different orchard, in a different wood—”
Perhaps for us the trees would sigh differently,
Extended into infinity under a misty hood…Perhaps among the furrowed green you’d reach your hands
For other flowers, trembling as they were birds—”
Perhaps from your undiscerning, unknowing lips
Would fall some other words—”some other words…Perhaps into a cascade of flaming roses
The sun would force our souls to burst for good,
Were I to meet you again for the first time,
But in a different orchard, in a different wood…
Translation by Leo Yankevich.
Gdybym spotkał ciebie znowu pierwszy raz,
Ale w innym sadzie, w innym lesie –
Może by inaczej zaszumiał nam las,
Wydłużony mgłami na bezkresie…Może innych kwiatów wśród zieleni bruzd
Jęłyby się dłonie, dreszczem czynne –
Może by upadły z niedomyślnych ust
Jakieś inne słowa – jakieś inne…Może by i słońce zniewoliło nas
Do spłonięcia duchem w róż kaskadzie,
Gdybym spotkał ciebie znowu pierwszy raz,
Ale w innym lesie, w innym sadzie…
He reached the graveyard, – grass, death, oblivion,-
He who had noticed how the world goes on.
It must have been a graveyard for dead ships.
He heard shrouds snarl under the wind’s whips
Yet quietness unravelled from the grass.
He let his silence into that silence pass.
And shaped from air a cross among the birds
While the first tombstone let him read these words“I did not die by chance but through the will
Of winds that found in me an easy kill.
They promised me safe anchor in my death,
Death in that anchorage : now they break faith.
The winds persist, and shipwreck underground.
New fears, not those I lost with life, resound.
Though slack with nothingness my buried forms
Are still judged worth their steerage through those storms.
Who blows the wind that makes my mainsails pout?
Why is a ship, once started, always out ?
I can say only that, without life, this hull
Plods sleeplessly, and misery bakes the skull.
For more than plain endurance none can pray,
But pray for me to Mary, traveller, pray.”He plucked some leaves and gave them to the air,
Then knelt, and three times prayed that formal prayer.
Translated by Jerzy Peterkiewicz and Burns Singer
Wędrowiec, na istnienie spojrzawszy – z ukosa.
Wszedł na cmentarz: śmierć, trawa, niepamięć i rosa.
Był to cmentarz Okrętów. Pod ziemią wrzał głucho
Trzepot żagli, pośmiertną gnanych zawieruchą.
Wędrowiec czuł, jak wieczność z traw się wykojarza.
I ciszę swą do ciszy dodając cmentarza.
Przeżegnał to, co bliżej: pszczół kilka, dwa krzaki
I na pierwszym grobowcu czytał – napis taki:“Zginąłem nie na ślepo, bo z woli wichury –
I wierzyłem, że odtąd nie zginę raz wtóry.
Że znajdę przystań w śmierci a śmierć w tej przystani.
Ale śmierć mię zawiodła! Umarłem nie dla niej!
Trwa nadal wiatr przeciwny i groza rozbicia.
I lęk, i niewiadomość, i wszystko prócz życia!
Szczątki moje podziemne, choć je nicość nuży,
Jeszcze godne są steru i warte są burzy,
Nikt nie wie, gdzie ten wicher, który żagle wzdyma?
Kto raz w podróż wyruszył – już się nie zatrzyma.
Znam tę głąb, gdzie się Okręt mocuje nieżywy.
Snu – nie ma! Wieczność – czuwa! Trup nie jest szczęśliwy!
Za wytrwałość mych żagli, które śmierć rozwija.
Przechodniu, odmów – proszę – trzy Zdrowaś Maryja!”Wędrowiec dla nikogo zerwał liście świeże
I ukląkł, by żądane odmówić pacierze.
I want to write about you
With your name to prop the crooked fence
The frozen cherry tree
About your lips
To form curved stanzas
About your lashes to lie that they are dark
I want
To weave my fingers through your hair
Find a nook in your throat
Where with a muffled whisper
The heart defies the lips
I want
To mix your name with stars
With blood
To be inside you
Not to be with you
To vanish
Like a raindrop soaked into night
Translation is unattributed
chcę pisać o tobie
twoim imieniem wesprzeć skrzywiony płot
zmarzłą czereśnię
o twoich ustach
składać strofy wygięte
o twoich rzęsach kłamać że ciemne
chcę
wplątać palce w twoje włosy
znaleźć wgłębienie w szyi
gdzie stłumionym szeptem
serce zaprzecza ustom
chcę
twoje imię z gwiazdami zmieszać
z krwią
być w tobie
nie być z tobą
zniknąć
jak kropla deszczu którą wchłonęła noc.
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7:36pm |
Posted a tweet on Twitter.
New blog post: March 7 – Motion by Ewa Lipska http://tinyurl.com/b8e3nn
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7:36pm |
Updated status on Facebook.
Deacon Jim New blog post: March 7 – Motion by Ewa Lipska http://tinyurl.com/b8e3nn.
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8:11pm |
Posted a tweet on Twitter.
New blog post: Solemnity of the Institution of the PNCC http://tinyurl.com/dgkzsj
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8:11pm |
Updated status on Facebook.
Deacon Jim New blog post: Solemnity of the Institution of the PNCC http://tinyurl.com/dgkzsj.
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First reading: Wisdom 5:1-5
Psalm: Ps 122:1-9
Epistle: 1 Timothy 4:1-5
Gospel: John 15:1-8
I am the vine, you are the branches. He who abides in me,
and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit
Reflection on where we are
One-hundred and twelve years. More than a century has passed since our Holy Polish National Catholic Church was organized. It is fitting then that the Holy Church gives us this Solemnity as an occasion for reflection. Now I have rightly opened this homily with words from Holy Scripture, so I can now focus on Frank Sinatra.
Frank Sinatra?
Yes, do-be-do-be-doo.
We are not just history
When I say reflect, our minds immediately wander into history. There is that, and I will cover that, but do-be-do-be-doo.
Do — our organizers of blessed memory, Bishop Hodur, our parents and grandparents, even great-great grandparents were not part of a Church that sat back pondering history. They lived an active faith, a living faith, a faith that moved mountains and changed the world. Our Church is a Church that lives and breathes, that teaches and instructs, that prays, and that makes over communities. It is our Church that respects God’s gift of democracy and self-determination, that lifts up the immigrant and those in need. We bring the young to Christ, bring forgiveness to sinners, sanctify the hearts of those who seek God. We marry and we ordain. We grant peace to the sick and the dying, and we carry the faithful on their final journey.
We are not a Church of history, or of the past, or of warm memory alone, but the Church that is so needed today.
Bishop Hodur was called by those in need
In March 1897 Father Franciszek Hodur sat at the table in the rectory of Holy Trinity Roman Catholic Church in Nanticoke, Pennsylvania. A group, making the journey from Scranton visited him and presented him with a petition signed by two hundred and thirty-seven members of a Scranton parish. Their need was laid before him and…do-be-do-be-doo, he decided to do, to hear their plea and to act.
Father Hodur saw the need and did something about it. He didn’t crawl into his comfortable bed in Nanticoke. He, a favorite of Scranton’s Roman Catholic Bishop, knew the consequences for not going back to bed. He knew that he could have wished the group well, quickly ushering them to the door, and he would have had a fine life. Instead he led them through the door to a life in which he, and the faithful of the Polish National Catholic Church, saw need and worked to meet it.
The Church is here for a reason
Back in my day we used to walk uphill to Nanticoke in our bare feet in the middle of winter, and then home again, uphill.
Aren’t our ancestors great. They were so strong, so determined, so invincible? They worked in the coal mines all day, raised bunches of kids, cooked, cleaned their clothes in the local stream…and they had time to organize a Church, build a cathedral, and spread God’s word, all on donations of nickels and dimes.
We see our forefathers as oh so strong as we sit in comfortable couches to lament our lack of time and energy. As for church, we are faithful and we arrive at our destination on a rather regular basis.
My friends, the Church is here for a reason, and it is not a destination. The Holy Church and our beautiful parish is more than a place to go to, it is the place we are to go from — renewed, strengthened, energized. Do-be-do-be-doo, to do.
The need is real
Brothers and sisters,
The need is oh so real. It isn’t just the current economy, the loss of jobs, hunger, family problems. Those things exist in good times and in the bad. In my secular work I see the exploitation that is going on.
The fourteen year old boy sleeping in an unheated guard shack at a construction site. He has no home, and the person employing him as a carpenter and drywall hanger doesn’t pay enough.
The crew of workers driven from state to state. Their employer drives them, houses them, feeds them, and pays a meager wage. They work seven days a week, twelve hours a day. If they should complain, should ask for time to go to church…they are left on the side of the road in nowhere New York. Left without money, without means to get home.
There are workers who keep working based on a promise to pay. They are told to work for free one day a week or they won’t be paid or called back. When the pay does come, weeks late, it is a fraction of the promised pay.
Look at this neighborhood. How many are hurting, how many in need, how many whose wages are stolen, how many need the hand of a brother or sister, a bowl of soup, the comforting hand of the Holy Church, the presence of Christ who calls us. Who calls us to do!
We are called
We are called to do. We aren’t here, in this neighborhood, by accident. God planted us here in His infinite wisdom. He planted us so that we may do. As with our ancestors, as with Bishop Hodur, we are here to teach and train, to pray, to feed, to stand together, and to demand justice. We are here to baptize, to forgive, to sanctify, to marry and ordain, to heal and comfort, and to carry our brothers and sisters home. God has given us a tremendous gift and a fantastic opportunity. God’s gift says — here is the Church so that you may represent Me, and so that many may find Me.
Who calls
Do you hear it? Do you hear that hymn, sung by Father, by our Bishop, by Bishop Hodur? Do-be-do-be-doo, go and do. Do you hear the words of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ:
`Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brethren, you did it to me.’
We are so blessed. Our democratic model for the Holy Church allows us to raise up our ideas, to share them, to debate them, and to reach consensus on that which we must do.
The call is there and it is speaking to our minds and hearts. The call takes many forms. It is the inspiration to take on a project, to lend a hand, to speak with Father. Father has asked us for input. From the March newsletter: —Father also makes this plea to let him know…— As Father Hodur heard the plea and acted, so too for us. We need to hear the plea and to be the Holy Church envisioned by our organizers. We all need to take the time to talk to Father, alone or in small groups. Let us go to him and share the things we want to do, for God, for our community, for this neighborhood.
To what end
Our first reading from Wisdom foretells the One who would beat expectations. The people said:
“This is the man whom we once held in derision
and made a byword of reproach — we fools!
We thought that his life was madness
and that his end was without honor.—
Jesus Christ beat expectations and people were amazed, shocked. We are called to do the same. We abide, we live in the light of the One who beat expectation — and so we must. Then, they will say of us:
—Why has he been numbered among the sons of God?
And why is his lot among the saints?—
Our lot is among the saints if we do-be-do-be-doo. So let us go and do. Let us go and bear much fruit. Amen.