Friends, the priest preaching this sermon is Fr. Michael DeGrogorio, OSA. Fr. Michael is the man who is responsible for establishing the National Shrine of St. Rita at St. Rita’s parish in Philadelphia. It is he who counseled a much younger version of myself all those years ago to ask St. Rita’s intercession and to be specific in my prayers. I began the first of many, many novenas and nine days later met my wife. When we married, it was in this magnificent church and Fr. Michael was there with us. His words about this great saint of the impossible are as moving as they are true.
She is not distant from us. She is very near to us and she is also near to Our Lord. He “graciously grants favors through her intercession which are considered impossible to human skill and effort” as the novena prayers say. By now you all know of my rabid devotion to her. I think it can be rightly said, and fellow devotees will correct me if I am wrong, that any who have found her – or rather whom she has found for God – are immediately drawn into her life and never let go.
This morning I awoke to a text from a friend, fellow blogger St. Louis Catholic, wishing me a happy feast day. This means I’m doing my job in spreading devotion to her. I went to confession at a church downtown. On my way out, I stopped to hold the door for a very expectant young mother and glanced down at the wicker basket in the gift shop. It was filled with those socks with the saints on them. The church was named in honor of St. Jude, Rita’s male counterpart in helping desperate souls. The socks at the top of the basket were of St. Rita. I laughed. The woman at the counter asked what was funny and I launched into ten minutes of the life of St. Rita. On my way back to my car I got an email from a regular reader who told me that he had been offering one of his intentions in his novena these past nine days for me and my family. Another dear friend sent me messages of prayerful union on this day. A priest-friend texted with links to celebrations of her feast from around the world. I cannot tell you all how much these things mean to me.
And what would mean even more? Learn from her. Learn her way of understanding, her way of resignation, her way of peace-making. In all she did and in every state in life, she pointed to Our Lord who so loved her as to give her one of His thorns. We should all be so blessed.
May God bless each of you and know that you continue to be in my novena prayers daily.
Recently a reader sent me a note asking if I could speak a bit more on my daily rosary, particularly my habit of praying all fifteen decades of the rosary daily. Well, dear reader, I will do just that!
First, the title… That clever little rhyme has probably been spoken by more than one person over the centuries; but I first heard it spoken by Bishop Williamson in one of his many YouTube talks. Now, regardless of how one may feel about the good bishop, the truth of what he says here is undeniable. That is, if one has the time to pray a complete rosary every day, one probably should be doing that. As for the “watch and pray” part? It’s not just that he needed words to rhyme with “every day”. It’s a clear reference to the dangerous times in which we live and to Our Lord’s Gospel admonition regarding the return of the Son of Man as Judge.
I heard someone tell a funny story once about the Luminous Mysteries. Wow, I didn’t even write “so-called” before that. I must be mellowing out in my older years. Anyway, the story goes that a fellow asked his parish priest if he should pray the Luminous Mysteries. The priest replied, “There’s no harm in that. Just also make sure you pray the rosary.”
So on praying the original, thirteenth century, handed from Blessed Mother to St. Dominic rosary… Here’s how I do it. The first thing is to mentally commit to the task. When I was young and my father would announce – right after dinner and while I was trying to watch Jeopardy! – that it was time for our family rosary, I wasn’t always thrilled to say the least. I viewed this not as an act of devotion to the Blessed Mother so much as an interruption of my schedule. Isn’t that ridiculous? Obviously, even then I knew that I was being stupid and that, of course, the rosary needed to come first and yet I still hated having to stop what I was doing to pray. Clearly, decades later I have gotten over it. And this is why I believe a family rosary is so important. Even if the kids would rather watch TV and resent you for making them stop to get the beads out, it will eventually sink in. But it can’t sink in if it never happens in the first place.
So on to the fifteen decades… Traditionally, as we know, the rosary is divided into three groups of five mysteries – Joyful, Sorrowful, and Glorious. I find that praying any one of those groups takes me about fifteen minutes. Now, I’m from New Jersey. We all speak fast. I’m the guy at Mass who, during the Leonine prayers at the end, finishes up one full word ahead of everyone else in the church and I’m not even trying. Your fifteen decades may take a few minutes longer. Either way, someone pointed out to me once that fifteen minutes is roughly 1% of the total time in a day. I did the math. It’s true. Now think of it in those terms. Can you spare 1% of the time God gave you? Am I trying to use guilt here? Sure am. Seriously, that time is a free gift from God. You didn’t create it. You cannot stop it advancing. It is yours to use in His service. You can do it
As it turns out, it takes me about fifteen minutes to drive to my parish. Since I’m already going there for Mass every day, I use the opportunity a lot of days to pray five decades either going or coming or both. Plenty of times my kids are in the car with me and we all pray together. Trust me, there’s nothing of value on the radio anyway since Rush died.
That only leaves the final five decades. Typically, if I haven’t prayed those during one of the many other times I find myself behind the wheel during the day, I will finish them before bed. My son and I take a little drive around town just for that purpose. He’s very good at reminding me.
So that’s the how. As to the why? Why not. See above about the percentage of time in a day. That doesn’t even get into the centuries of spiritual writing on the rosary, the words of great saints, the admonition of the Blessed Mother herself at Fatima and other places. Are we in the end times? Things are certainly bad (some would rightly argue worse than they’ve ever been). Should that matter? Can you ever go wrong meditating on the life of Jesus and Mary?
I will continue this more in a future post as it is getting late.
We did not stay awake for Sister. No, my own sister, my wife, and I all went to sleep around 1 AM after the following text exchange with Sister.
–Would love to stay up and watch Dallas but we’re all beat. Use the code “XXX-XXX” to turn off the alarm when you come in. –I know your alarm code.
Sunday February 14, 2021
I rose extra early this morning. Part of me just wanted to be prepared for the snow and to assess whether or not I would actually be able to drive my sister to the airport or would have to call her an Uber. The other part of me, for there are only two parts and neither is very impressive, wanted to arrange the few Valentine’s surprises I had purchased for the family on our kitchen counter. I’ve been trying to be more attentive to little details. By this I mean I’ve been trying to shop for gifts and generally be better in the thoughtfulness department lately. Let’s face it. If anything ever happens to my wife, I’m screwed. Better get on board now with trying to copy her moves so it doesn’t resemble a complete disaster. So there was a large box of chocolates for her and smaller boxes for the kids, one for my niece who lives with us, one for my sister, one for Sister, and some Valentine’s cards I had picked up.
I had just finished placing the last of the heart-shaped cardboard containers on the counter when my sister emerged from her bedroom. “What’s the situation?” she asked. I explained that I had been listening to the weather reports and had been outside already. It was definitely going to be bad. Already the temperature was in the teens and there was a strange feeling in the air that one knows by heart if one grew up in a northern latitude. Snow was at the doorstep. I scheduled an Uber and told my sister of my regret that I couldn’t drive her personally to the airport. She understood but still it didn’t feel right. I always make it a point, ever since I could drive, to personally pick up and drop off my guests at the airport. For starters, we’ve always lived relatively close to a major airport. I joke that I like to be able to make a quick exit if the need arises. Even as a kid, though, I was always fascinated with airports. It’s the five year-old boy in me. Not to mention, this is my sister. She deserved to be seen off with a personal touch.
Just as I informed her that I had scheduled the Uber – two hours out – the familiar sound of giant, clanking, wooden beads came down the hall. “Why Sister,” I exclaimed. “Nice to see you among the land of the living.” “Coffee,” came her reply. “How was the conference?” I asked. “Stand out of my way please,” were the six words I was not expecting; yet they were said in an almost helpless way. “Long night?” I asked, forgetting for a moment that I had awoken at 2:15 AM to the sounds of a sub-woofer dropping the beat to “The Sign” by Ace of Base in my driveway. Life really is demanding without understanding. “Listen,” she said, “I just need a hit of the wakey juice and I’ll be good.” Then, turning toward my sister, “Oh hey! Glad you’re still here! We have so much to catch up on.” I explained to Sister that the other sister would be taking leave of us soon. Sister agreed that they must arrange a get-together in the near-future. “It will be so much fun,” she said as she slipped back into the sign language that had been absent from my life for the weekend. And to be honest, I’m not sure how both hands raised as if holding steins is the proper sign for any of that. “I just love the way you tell a story and I’m dying to hear more about the hoes.” In case anyone has forgotten, that’s a reference to the Irish dance moms from the previous installment. “Definitely have to meet up again and,” turning to me, “also I’ve arranged a priest to come and say mass in your house if that’s OK. He’ll be here in a couple of hours. Figured it was the least I could do since I think all the local masses are canceled due to the storm rolling in.”
Well that was a surprise indeed! I wondered who this collared man of mystery would be. Someone I know? A priest from a religious order? Maybe a Carthusian! Maybe a bishop in disguise!! My morning had just gotten very interesting. I took a shower and got changed and then stood on the front porch. In those 30 minutes I was grooming, mostly trimming my beard, the flakes had materialized. And now there was a solid half-inch of packed snow on the road. The untreated road. The road that would not reveal its pavement for another week. Good bye, road. It was nice to see you. I stood there waiting for that Uber. In fact I had the app open and watched as the clock counted down for me.
Your Uber will arrive in five minutes.
It gave me similar messages for the next four minutes. And then… Nothing. The app went blank as though I had never scheduled a thing. Well that’s not good, I thought to myself. Let’s try just ordering one and see what happens. And… Nope. There’s the problem. There were absolutely zero Ubers on the road. It’s odd because so many of my fellow Texans own four wheel drive pick up trucks. Someone ought to be making a killing in this weather. But here we were. Looks like I would have to drive my sister after all. We checked one more time that her flight hadn’t been canceled, she said goodbye to my wife and kids, did some weird “up high, down low” high five with Sister, and we took off.
The airport terminals are fifteen minutes from my front door.
The drive took us an hour. It was bad out there. Slow going doesn’t begin to describe it. White knuckle driving is a bit more accurate. “I’m gonna’ need a Xanax” driving is probably best. I walked my sister into the terminal and discovered that she would be on the last flight out of this place today (and indeed for several days). We said our good bye’s and she slipped past security. As a parting gift, when we rebooked her flight, my wife put her in first class. As I walked away from the terminal I texted her.
If you don’t take that airline for all the free cocktails you can manage in a three hour flight, I will personally strangle you.
Another hour later and I was slowly skidding my way back into the driveway. Sister was on my front porch smoking a Camel. I know, right? She stamped it out as I approached. “I didn’t know you smoke,” I said with an impish grin. “I don’t,” said Sister as serious as a heart attack. “Fr. will be here soon. I hope you don’t mind but he only says the Traditional Latin Mass.” “Don’t mind at all, Sister. That’s what we go to,” I said. “Also there are some quirks,” replied Sister. As she said this she raised both hands in front of her face and flung out all ten fingers like they were glitter or confetti or something. As she did this, she literally said, albeit in a whisper, “Poof.”
Snow. In Texas.
I noticed my daughter had made biscuits and gravy and they were warming on the stove. I can’t turn down good Southern cooking so I fixed myself a plate. Sister slapped the fork out of my hand just as it was about to enter my mouth. “Fr. will be here SOON,” she said excitedly. In my hunger I had almost forgotten about the pre-Communion fast. Then again, “soon” doesn’t specify a time and since he was coming to my house to say mass I figured he might be able to delay the start of the mass until we were all good and ready. “Also, wouldn’t we need to have time to set up an altar, chairs, an entire chapel,” I wondered? Reading my thoughts, Sister said calmly, “Fr. does all that. Do not worry.” Nevertheless I felt it incumbent to get changed into my suit. It matters not whether it’s at home (which is very rare) or in a gothic cathedral. Sunday mass is a cause for dressing up for the Lord. I walked into my bedroom and toward my closet. Opening the closet door I just about had a heart attack. A slightly-built man in a long black cassock and a biretta to match was just emerging from the other side. I’ve learned not to ask anymore. About anything. Ever. And it’s also good I had already disarmed myself when I walked in the door from the airport.
“You must be Father?” I said half stating the obvious and half out of genuine curiosity. The answer, the words that came back at me… I have a beautiful voice. I’ve long been told I should do voiceover acting. I’ve done some radio spots. I love to read to people. I sang in a choir. This voice? If Barry White and Perry Como had somehow spliced their genes, they couldn’t have made a more perfect voice. Deep, relaxing to the point of inducing torpor, spellbinding. And that voice said simple, “Yes.” So the obvious next question was “Why the closet when we have a front door, Father?” To this my closet cleric said simply, “These are dangerous times. Sister gave me a coded map. I followed it. It led to that opening over there.” He said this as he pointed to the daylight pouring in from behind my linen suits (for Summer). I walked over to inspect. Sliding the suits over on the bar I could see clearly what was taking place. “Father,” I asked somewhat hesitating, “Did Sister create a medieval ‘priest hole’ on the back wall of my house?” I completely ignored the questions of how she got in there and cut through plaster and brick as quickly as she had. By the way, kudos to her. The small 3’X3′ square was cut with such precision as to be easily placed back without any notice. And this is what Father and I did promptly. You know, because it was snowing and it was also a load bearing wall.
On our way out of the bedroom (I never did get changed into my suit) Father and I talked briefly. “What are these ‘dangerous times’ of which you speak?” Father, who appeared in the light to be somewhere between 40 and 85 years-old, leaned in close. “Masks,” he whispered. “I don’t wear one and the people who seek me out don’t either.” “So let me get this straight, Father,” I asked. “You’ve made a cottage industry catering to Traditional Catholics who wish to remain maskless?” “Oh my son, it’s more than that.” He had better be closer to 85 if he’s calling me “my son”. Father paused briefly before adding, “But mostly that, yeah.”
And that seems like a good place to leave off for now. Come back for part 7 where the Hill of Calvary and Elizabethan England somehow merge in my dining room in Texas.
I have been in the Fatherland going on a week now. I am here to visit and spend time with my mom who is in the hospital.
It is also now the Sacred Paschal Triduum. I have been able to slip out of the room to make my way to a piecemeal collection of beautiful Catholic churches in order to observe the liturgy of the Church during these holiest of days.
Yesterday – Holy Thursday – I started out the day looking for a place to confess my sins. I mean, I could confess them anywhere and to anyone but I kind of wanted to do it to an ordained priest. Something about actual absolution and all… Here’s the thing. I am in the habit of going roughly once a week. But as we enter into these three days, surprisingly, confessions are rather limited. I don’t know if it’s that the priests are all of a sudden really, really busy or what. But I was able to find a scheduled round of confessions at St. Michael’s, a church tucked away at the lower end of Broadway near Bloomfield Ave. in the North Ward. Those familiar with the area will know exactly what this looks like. I can’t adequately describe it. OK, I could adequately describe it and I will one day but it would take pages. For now, I would like the artwork of the church tell the story. You see, most churches in this part of the world look like this one. Old, traditional, built on the donations of the mostly poor immigrant Catholics who brought to these shores their Old World style and peculiarities.
The thing is that in the art I was reminded of the story. The story here is the love of a mother for her Son and the love of the Son for the whole human race including you and me. Let’s start…
Here we see the Last Supper. Appropriate since this was taken on Holy Thursday. Note the detail and use of brilliant color.
Now let’s look at the Woman and her Son.
Not quite what you were expecting? I know, it’s Easter-time, not Christmas. But take a look at what was hanging on the wall just next to this particular window.
From His infancy to His death He was always close to His mother. It was in her arms that He rested in life and in death. Imagine her joy and her sorrow. I want that when my children read this in years to come they recognize something my parents taught me – that devotion to Our Lord comes through devotion to His mother. As He was pleased to rest in her arms we must turn to her in prayer and always be devoted to the Mother He gave us from the cross.
Here now, some other pieces on which to meditate…
Resurrection!
Santisima Virgen de el Cisne
Virgin Caridad
Crucifixion in stained glass, above the high altar.
Folks, I got off all that social media nonsense a while ago. Sorry but I'm not on Twitbook, Facepalm, YouHu, WingWang or any of the others. Maybe an event will happen to make me change my mind like Peter and Paul coming down with flaming swords and commanding it be so. Until then, read the blog and if you feel a comment is in order or you feel like sharing a tip or suggestion for a topic, email me at harvey@harveymillican.com.
Harvey Millican's Blog: Musings of a Trad Dad 