2014 Departure Message to MHT-SM Parishioners

 The following message (in both English and Spanish) appeared in Trinity's bulletin today:  

MESSAGE FROM FATHER TIMOTHY: 

Dear Parishioners:  

It is with a very heavy heart that I depart you, the people and the parish of Most Holy Trinity--St. Mary.  . I have been stationed at Trinity for seventeen years of my life: first for seven years during the 1990s and for the past ten years, from 2004 until now. This place, and all of its wonderful people, will always have a very special and sacred spot in my heart and soul. My departure from Trinity was not my choice, but rather that of the friars of the religious community to which I belong. This decision has not been easy for me to accept, but with prayer and hope in the goodness of God and his will, it is a reality for which I believe we must trust in Divine Providence. Please pray for me, as I always will for you, and let us thank God for all of the many wonderful and blessed years we have had together. I'm on my way to Syracuse, New York, and to the Franciscan Church of the Assumption; if ever in that area, please stop by to say hello! I will forever have a very special place in my heart, and great love, for the people of Trinity; "be assured my heart is here, and always will be!" With great affection, Friar Timothy

MENSAJE DE PADRE TIMOTEO:

Queridos feligreses: 

Es con un corazón muy pesado que yo los dejo a ustedes, el pueblo y la parroquia de la Santísima Trinidad - St. María.  He estado aquí en Trinidad durante diecisiete años de mi vida: primero, durante siete años en la década del 1990 y durante los últimos diez años, desde el 2004 hasta ahora.  Este lugar, y todas las personas tan maravillosas, siempre tendrán un lugar muy especial y sagrado en mi corazón y en mi alma. Mi salida de Trinidad no fue mi elección, sino más bien la de los frailes de la comunidad religiosa a la que pertenezco.  Esta decisión no ha sido fácil para mí aceptar, pero con la oración y la esperanza en la bondad de Dios y su voluntad, es una realidad por la que creo que debemos confiar en la Divina Providencia.  Por favor oren por mí, como siempre lo haré por ustedes, y demos gracias a Dios por todos los muchos años maravillosos y bendecidos que hemos tenido juntos.  Estoy en camino a Syracuse, Nueva York, a la Iglesia Franciscana de la Asunción; si alguna vez está por esa area, por favor pase a saludarme!  Siempre tendré un lugar muy especial en mi corazón, y un gran amor, por el pueblo de Trinidad; "esten seguros de que mi corazón está aquí, y siempre lo estará!" Con gran afecto, Fray Timoteo

The Eyes of Auschwitz

When I went to the Auschwitz Concentration Camp, I visited Block 11, the building where St. Maximilian Mary Kolbe, OFM Conv., was martyred by the Nazis. Kolbe was only one of hundreds of thousands of people put to death; millions of Jewish people, as well as many others, including Christians, hundreds of whom were priests and members of religious communities of men and women, were murdered by the Nazis.

When I visited the second floor of Block 11, I saw, on a wall in a corridor, a row of hundreds of framed photographs--mug shots of men who had lived and died at Auschwitz. I took the time to study as many of their faces as time permitted me. It profoundly touched my soul to have that chance to look into the eyes of those men, now frozen in time.

I can't forget those eyes. They now torment me from my place of comfort.

Each of those sets of two eyes, so very much represent the eyes of millions of others. Those eyes stare out from saddened faces, and they continue today to stare at all of us. We don't have to visit Auschwitz to know that they are there, still there. Those eyes cry out not to be forgotten. I wonder how many people today stop for even a moment, wherever they may be, and take the time to notice those eyes, and those who might hold similar eyes today, and the real men and women who have held them?

At Auschwitz, I saw clearly inside of those eyes, and into the horror they beheld.

Those eyes of Auschwitz continue to stare at us all, and they continue to penetrate the souls of those who are willing to look into them.

How can we continue, in our own day, to pay tribute to the men and women who were put to death by the Nazis? Indeed, how can we recognize and acknowledge those in our own time, who in different places throughout the world, are put to death through genocide, and other types of violence, great and small? Do we even understand how such violence has been, and is, perpetrated by the potentates against those who are powerless?

Those eyes of Auschwitz, those millions of eyes there and beyond, continue to stare at us. Who among us cares enough to make sure the deaths of those who held them will never be forgotten?

Who are those people in our own lives, and in our own time and place, who might be "different" than us? Might we too, like those who championed the cause of the Nazis, or those who were complicit with them, fail to see such people as victims of those who know only how to hate?

Can we look into the eyes of such victims and recognize their true humanity, and can we acknowledge and recognize their dignity as fellow human beings?

What follows is a kind of poem I wrote as I reflected on my visit to Auschwitz and the second floor of Block 11. The poem is not finished . . .

The Eyes of Auschwitz

Still . .

Eyes

staring

wide opened,

focused clearly

Those eyes . .

staring

Portals

revealing souls

heart broken,

eyes staring

On the walls,

second floor

block 11

Auschwitz

Those eyes . .

staring

Eyes

on frozen faces,

young men

staring

Proud

eyes

staring,

staring

Those eyes . .

staring

Lineages

disrespected,

pedigrees

unaffected

Still today,

haunting

young men

staring

Those eyes . .

staring

Staring

through

generations

unknown

Eyes

staring still,

without end

staring

Those eyes . .

staring

Sorrow

pain

horror

death

Imprisoned,

focused

sad eyes

staring

Those eyes . .

staring

Tearless

crying eyes,

staring

staring

Those eyes . . .

staring

still.

 

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The Warsaw Ghetto

This marker showing the place of the wall separating the Warsaw Ghetto from the rest of the city, is located on a sidewalk along the side wall of the Conventual Franciscan Church of St. Francis of Assisi, Warsaw, Poland.  It is said that the friars smuggled food and goods into the Ghetto from inside the church. 

My visits to both the Auschwitz Concentration Camp, and to the site of the Warsaw Ghetto, have had a profound effect on my thinking about those places and the horrors that occurred there.  I will no doubt be reflecting on my thoughts from those places for a very long time to come.

During my visit to Warszava (Warsaw), Poland, I was able to go to the place where once was located the "Warsaw Ghetto", a place where nearly a half a million Jewish people were fenced in and imprisoned in their own city from 1940 until 1943. The living conditions in the ghetto were absolutely deplorable, and many thousands of innocent people died there from starvation, disease and violence. It's almost impossible to imagine how this could have happened in a "civilized" world. When the Nazis decided to clear out the ghetto and transport its remaining inhabitants to concentration camps, and to the fate of ultimate extermination in the gas chambers, many resisted. As the German soldiers went door to door rounding up the people, some cried out and begged to be left alone; they refused to be "voluntarily" taken from their homes and away from their families and loved ones. Many of those who resisted were "shot dead on the spot."

Real people; people who loved and cared for others; people who had dreams of better lives; people who wanted the best for their children; real people who were simply "shot dead on the spot."

The history of that place, and the horrible reality of what happened there, should never be forgotten.

My visit there has had a profound effect on me.

Like those who were so inhumanely treated in the Warsaw Ghetto, what human beings among us today might be considered to be so worthless and without rights that others who simply have "power" would have the right to "shoot them dead on the spot?"

These were my thoughts as I now contemplate my visit to the site of the Warsaw ghetto.

Friar Timothy

 

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Learn more about the Franciscan Church of St. Francis in Warsaw at the following link:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Church_of_St_Francis_in_Warsaw

This is the Life of a Parish Priest

Today I celebrated a funeral mass for a man who was very loved by his family and friends. Later, as I waited in the cemetery for them to gather at the grave side, these were my thoughts:

This is the life of a parish priest:

he journeys through life with his fellow Christians, and he hopes alongside of them to humbly follow the call of Jesus;

he serves all of his parishioners, no matter what their perspective on life nor the manner in which they choose to live;

he welcomes his sisters and brothers into the church, and proclaims God’s love and forgiveness, as he baptizes them in the Name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit;

he celebrates God's love and grace as he presides at the altar and consecrates and shares the Holy Eucharist;

he studies the Scriptures and he preaches the Word of God to people who thirst and hunger for understandings of eternal realities;

he reconciles those who have been estranged from God and others, as he lovingly guides the hearts of fellow sinners, and gently whispers words of pardon;

he officiates and stands together with young (and sometimes older) couples as they come before God and the community and they joyfully profess their marriage vows to one another;

he anoints those who are ill, and their families too, as he prays for healing and freedom from sickness, suffering and pain;

he consoles those who have lost loved ones, and he prays and mourns with them as together they hope for eternal life.

He journeys . . . 
he hopes . . . 
he serves . . . 
he welcomes . . . 
he forgives . . . 
he shares . . . 
he celebrates . . . 
he studies . . . 
he preaches . . . 
he reconciles . . . 
he guides . . . 
he officiates . . . 
he anoints . . . 
he consoles . . . 
he mourns . . . 
he prays . . . 

This is the life of a parish priest!

On the journey . . .

 

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"Who Am I To Judge?"

I needed new glasses, but . . .

Recently and much to my chagrin, the frames of my prescription eyeglasses cracked just near the nose bridge on the right side causing the right lens to pop out and fall to the floor.  This was the second time in one year that my supposedly “unbreakable” frames cracked and rendered my eyeglasses to be useless. 

Because of this misfortune, I had to make a necessary trip to the optometrist in order to be refitted for another set of glasses; as I expected, I was told the new frames would not be ready for about a week.  This was not a great problem as I am very accustomed to using inexpensive “reading glasses” that I typically leave in strategic places around the house and in work areas.  I keep pairs of these glasses on my night-stand, on the table in the living room, in the kitchen, by my computer in the office, in the car and just about anywhere I might need them in a pinch. 

Our parish secretary and I share a similar need for reading glasses, and at times we find ourselves sharing the glasses we both have when our regular prescription glasses have been left somewhere else. 

Two days after my regular glasses broke, and long before I was able to get a replacement pair, I woke up in the morning and, running a bit late for Mass, hurried from my room and downstairs and then made my way to church.  Just as I passed the front office in the rectory, I realized that I had forgotten to bring along one of my sets of reading glasses.  No problem, I thought: I will simply borrow a pair from the secretary, and so I grabbed a pair that I found in her desk drawer and then made my way to the church for Mass.  Before making the sign of the cross in order to begin the Mass, I placed the borrowed glasses snugly on my face and proceeded to begin the sacred rituals. 

Lord, have mercy; Christ have mercy; Lord have mercy, we all recited together as we concluded the Penitential Rite.  I prayed the Collect, or “opening prayer” of the Mass and then proceeded to take my seat in the presider’s chair. 

As the lector began the First Reading, I casually removed the glasses from my face and studied them for a moment.  It was only then that I realized that in my haste to procure the glasses from the secretary’s desk, that I had grabbed a pair of fake diamond studded, leopard skin patterned frames that would possibly have only looked good on someone like Lucille Ball. 

I must have turned ten shades of red with embarrassment at that point, but what was I to do?

I needed the glasses in order to proclaim the Gospel.  As I concluded reading, the people sat as usual in order to prepare to listen to whatever “wisdom” I might share with them in the homily.  At that moment, and motivated by a great sense of embarrassment, I decided to “explain” my choice of eyeglasses that morning.  Fortunately the people at Mass formed a very sympathetic audience and they chuckled along with me as I described how I ended up with the fake diamond studded, leopard skin patterned eyeglass frames. 

Feeling their understanding, compassion and mercy, I had no problem finishing the Mass using those fabulous, one-of-a-kind, eyeglasses! 

On a more serious note, this experience has led me to a kind of reflection on the need to be less judgmental as I assess how other people look, what they wear and how they carry themselves.  Perhaps too, I might be a little slower to sit in judgement over those who don’t seem to share my values, my religious convictions, my politics and/or my way of living.  I can never really know what circumstances have brought someone to look the way they do, to act the way they act, or to live they way they live.  In the end, it seems to me that what really matters is not the fake diamond studded, leopard skin patterned frames someone might be wearing, but rather what’s in a person’s heart.  Only God can judge that. 

And in the words of Pope Francis: “Who am I to judge?”

 

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+Friar Maury Marhafer, OFM Conv.

 

+ Friar Maury Marhafer, OFM Conv. (my confrere)

REST IN PEACE:

This post is one of many tribute pages found on my blog created to honor significant family members, friends, and loved ones who have passed from this life to the next . . .

+ Friar Maury Marhafer, OFM Conv. (my confrere)

Date/place of birth: 1927, Upstate New York

Date/place of death: March 7, 2013, San Jose, Costa Rica

 

From 1998 until 2001, I lived with Maury at St. Francis College, Moravia, San Jose, Costa Rica.  He was a kind and gentle friar who always encouraged me with his friendly words and disposition.  He is missed.

– Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May his soul and all the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

Homeless Woman In Midtown Manhattan

     The other day, I went into Manhattan for a meeting at St. Francis Church on 31st Street; afterwards I decided to take a stroll around midtown. It was a beautiful summer day; the temperature was just right and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. I strolled up 6th Avenue through Herald Square, along 34th Street and past Macy’s Department Store, down 7th Avenue and into Penn Station, then alongside Madison Square Garden on 33rd Street, and then over to 8th Avenue and onto the grand steps of the central Post Office. Getting into the opportunity to relax and take in the sights, I went to a store and bought myself an ice cream and an iced coffee and then I found a nice shaded bench where I sat in the public plaza adjacent to 1 Penn Plaza. The public plaza, located just to the south of 34th Street, was bustling with activity–people rushing here and there, tourists taking photos, and many others just sitting on the benches and enjoying the day like me; I love to watch people, and the ice cream and coffee were pretty good too!

     After a short time sitting in that spot, I noticed a very unusual middle-aged woman who had walked onto the plaza. When I saw her, she was standing about twenty-five feet away from where I was. By all appearances, the woman was most likely quite mentally ill and perhaps homeless as well. She wore a completely ripped apart down jacket that was in fact missing the entire left arm sleeve. Her ragged clothes barely hung onto her tortured frame; in fact, her unbelted and loose fitting pants were falling off of her waist and her private parts were clearly visible. She didn't seem the least bit concerned about her disheveled, immodest, and sad appearance. She stood for a while and looking up to the windows of the office buildings above, started to scream inaudible words that seemed to cry out in anger and pain. Eventually she tugged at the waistline of her pants and pulled them up restoring a very small amount of dignity to her appearance. After a short while, she sat down on a bench-like stone wall and then she began to rummage through a canvas bag that she had been carrying. She proceeded to pull out what looked like crushed paper cups and a collection of colorful plastic straws. Then she stood up and proceeded to walk back and forth to a nearby trash can, each time violently pitching the cups and straws into it. As she threw the objects into the trash, she yelled at each of them–as if casting them individually into the fires of hell. After finishing with the cups and straws, she began to dig deep into the same trash can. Eventually she pulled a McDonald’s bag out of the trash can and started to rummage through it, retrieving a container half-filled with French fries and a paper cup with some remains of a beverage. She sat down again on the bench and methodically ate each fry and then finished the meal by drinking whatever was left in the cup. In what seemed like a great irony to me, a man sat on another nearby bench, perhaps not more than fifteen feet away from her, and he proceeded to empty what seemed to be an entire shopping bag of bread crumbs onto the pavement in order to feed hundreds of pigeons who came scrambling to enjoy his generosity. The woman seemed oblivious to the man and the pigeons he was feeding. Not long after she finished consuming her McDonald’s meal, the woman reclined on the stone bench on which she had been sitting. A swarm of flies immediately attacked her and she proceeded to swat at them, even hitting herself in the face as she cried out in a loud voice, "get off of me." After a short while, and what seemed to be an unsuccessful battle with the flies, the woman appeared to fall asleep. She rested there for a long while, even as the sun beat down upon her and as the flies defiantly continued to assault her face.

     I took out my camera and at the same time debated with myself about whether or not snapping her photo, even from my distance, would be an invasion of her privacy. Very careful not to capture the image of her face, and very discreetly, I took two photos. I had hoped to capture the moment so that I would never forget that poor woman and her plight. I also thought that if I could share my experience that day with others, even through the photos, that somehow I could help to bring attention to what is no doubt a problem for that woman and for millions of other very humble people who share this earth with the rest of the human community.

     The sight of that poor woman, and the burdens that she so obviously carried, moved me to a sense of great pity, but I did nothing for her just then and probably couldn’t have even if such had been my desire at that moment. I found myself choking back tears as I watched the woman and as I contemplated her situation, but I felt completely powerless to do anything that could help her. I wondered to myself what kind of life she had lived up to that point; I wondered what her name was; I wondered about the daily struggles she must have had; I wondered if anyone had ever attacked or raped her, or if she had been abused in some other sinister way; I wondered if she had committed some egregious acts or crimes in her life that had destined her to be an outcast; I wondered if she had been a happy child and if she had good memories from her past; I wondered if somewhere there was an old photograph of her from her youth in which she wore a beautiful dress and could be seen smiling broadly; I wondered who might still be holding that photo; I wondered if she still had family or other people in her life who loved her and worried about her and hoped that she would come home someday; I wondered if she had any friends at all and what kind of joy, if any, they might bring into her life; I wondered if anyone at all could do anything to help her; I wondered if what I saw that day would typify the manner in which she would live her life until the very end. As I contemplated all of these questions, I felt very sad, even hopeless.

     Suddenly, darkness entered what had been a cloudless and beautiful day.

     All that I can do now is to pray for that woman, and for other people who have similar difficulties and problems. May God help them and may they be given the strength and guidance they might need in order to overcome the sufferings of this life.

     To the very unusual middle-aged woman who had walked onto the plaza that day: whatever your name might be, may peace and all that is good be yours someday soon.

 

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