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Sacred Heart Cathedral, Dodge City, Kansas Sept. 10, 2000 It's a delight for me to see so many of you here today representing the Church from all over the Diocese. It's a delight to see so many familiar faces, friendly faces even from as far away as Syracuse and Tribune, squinting there behind the pillar. It's a trifle warm in here - a trifle warm with all these vestments on. That's probably why I was thinking of some days earlier in the week. If you recall, we had some very pleasant mornings, some relatively cool mornings in Dodge City this week. And those always remind me of what's soon to follow. If the mornings turn cool, it's not going to be too long until fall. Fall is in the air. It was in the air this week. And in thinking about that, I was reminded of the story that the old English Divines always used to tell; not a story so much as an explanation of things. And those old Divines always said that creation - God's creation of this world of ours - took place in the fall. In fall. And they said that with great gravity and with great assurance. They knew exactly that it was in the fall when this happened. And it makes a little bit of sense, if you stop to think about it. What they were really suggesting to us is that the fall - this is the way they conceived of it - the fall was a brooding time, a reflective time. The fall was a kind of a melancholy time. You understand that. All those words remind you of fall. There was an English poet in the 19th Century - Wordsworth, perhaps - who talked about this time of year, this season of the year, and spoke about it in terms of "melancholy." And he had a lovely image suggestive of melancholy. For him, melancholy was like a gliding, ghostly nun. He said, "Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, sober, steadfast, and demure." Isn't that a lovely image? A pensive nun, stealing upon him. This melancholy stealing upon him. A lovely way to think about it, this time of year. And those old Divines, too, always thought that the fall was a particularly creative time. There is another poet of the 19th Century, a Frenchman, MallarmŽ who said, "This was the saison intellectuelle creatrice." The really energy-filled, creative time. So those Divines, really, had a certain intuition about something. And the intuition is a very valuable one, I think. They assign the fact of creation, the time of creation, to this particularly brooding, melancholy, creative time of year: the fall. And that's an interesting thing for us to think about - an interesting thing for us to follow. In fact, what I would ask you to do, you who represent all this Church in the diocese now, I would ask you to approach this opening of our jubilee year in just that spirit, in just that frame of mind. I would ask you to approach all this jubilee year - and we will stretch it out over 18 months - I would ask you to approach it precisely like a pensive nun. Come at it in that fashion. And I ask you to do that because "something" is being created here, now. If you look, you can almost see the Spirit moving over the waters. If you look, you can almost see light being wrung from darkness. If you look, you can see the leaves unfolding, stretching to the sun. If you look, you can see the wide-eyed calves frolicking, delighted at the sheer beauty of physical movement. If you look, you can see man being scooped from the clay, and you can see woman being born from the enchanted sleep. Something is being created here, now. There's that building, to be sure - that building north and west of us. That's being created now. We rushed to break the ground and then we sat like penniless orphans, penniless waifs, outside the bakery window, and waited for one long month. And waited for two long months. And there were no cookies. There were no cakes. There was no bread. But now the mixer is running. Now things are beginning to happen. The site-work is finished, and I think the trenching was done, some of the foundation was poured. I'm not sure what was done at the end of the week. Something is being created there. But that's really not what I'm talking about. I think there's something stirring in every community across this diocese. I see it everywhere I go. I feel it everywhere I go. Ten days ago I was in Great Bend to celebrate the weekend Masses at St. Rose of Lima Church. And just being with that group of people - the extraordinary pluck of that group of people. The indomitable will of that group of people. The resilience of that group of people. Something was stirring in that community. And I find that wherever I go in this diocese. Something is stirring, I think, in each individual heart in this diocese. It was exactly a week ago that a young man came to me, out of the blue, really. A young man who just finished college, saying that he wanted to devote his life to proclaiming the Gospel. He wanted to be a part of this thing that is stirring in this diocese. And God willing, he will be our sixth seminarian very soon. Something is being created here, now. It is and it can be. It is being created here, because this time is God's time, this fall of the year. It is, because this time is God's time, this jubilee year. It is, because this time, this 50th anniversary time, is God's time. And in God's time, amazing things happen. Eyes are opened, Isaiah told us in the first reading today, in God's time. Ears are cleared, Isaiah told us in that reading, in God's time. Tongues sing in God's time. Springs burst forth in the desert in God's time. This time is God's time because He is calling us to something and He's coming in a particularly powerful way to us in this jubilee year. He is extending to us an offer of grace; a gift of grace never before seen and never to be seen again. He is calling us with a new call never before heard, and never to be heard again. This God of ours is a creative God, and that makes this a creative time. Or, it can be. It can be if you come at it precisely like that pensive nun, sensitive to the things that are stirring inside you. It can be, if you come into the upper room and wait - as the second lesson told us today - wait with the apostles; wait with the Mother of God; wait in prayer. It can be, if you learn to listen to the wild wind and sometimes shiver at its sheer power. It can be this special creative time, if you can feel the warmth descend upon you. Can you? Can you feel him? Can you detect Him? Can you sense Him moving in your communities? Moving in your individual families? Moving in your individual lives? He is creative, our God is, so this is a creative time. And what we need to do - I'm going to suggest this - the essential thing we need to do throughout all this year, this jubilee year, the essential thing we need to do is to learn to be still and to listen. We need to be still and to know. We need to be still and to follow. That's the essential task the Lord is placing before us. That's the crucial thing we need to do. We need to be still and to listen. In this jubilee year, as many of you know, I plan to move from parish to parish, cluster by cluster by cluster, and visit with all the leaders around the diocese. I want to come together with you; I want to thank you; I want to encourage you; I want to challenge you. And especially, what I want to do is to gather with you in prayer, in silence, so that we, together, might listen; listen to Him. It is His Church after all. It's not your Church. It's not my Church. It's our Church, insofar as we are united with Him. Insofar as his wishes, his will guides us. Insofar as we walk step by step with Him. It is His Church. And the first thing we need to do in coming together is to listen to what He wants to do with this Church of His. To listen where He wants to take this Church of His. That's the essential task, the crucial task in this jubilee year. We need to be still and to listen; we need to be still and to know. And especially today, especially today we need to know the deep and lasting debt we have contracted with the people who made this local church. With all our ancestors, with all those people we have buried, with all those people whose memories run back over 50 years and run back farther than that. We need to have a deep and lively sense of gratitude to them today - a sense of gratitude to the Native Americans who populated this place; a sense of gratitude to the soldiers; a sense of gratitude to the railroaders; a sense of gratitude to the town builders; a sense of gratitude to the laconic farmers and their lonely wives. A sense of gratitude to the itinerant priests, and to the long-suffering and selfless nuns who worked here. A sense of gratitude to all the bishops who poured out their life's force to make this place go. We need to be still and commune with these ghosts of our past, so that we can understand how much we owe them. That's the essential task for us in this jubilee year. That's a crucial task for us. And we need to be still, and to follow. To know how to follow. Because all those people that we remember today, people who built this Church, people who built this lovely place, all those people, all that history, that contains clues for us, clues about where the Lord wants to take us. All these priests, stretched so thin. All these people whom you represent; all the people of southwest Kansas - the Catholic people of southwest Kansas. There are clues written large in all of you for where the Lord wants to take us. For what the Lord wants to do with us. Where is it? Where? We'll never know, unless we learn to be still and to listen. Be still and to know. Be still and to follow. So I ask you, as you come to the threshold now and cross the threshold of this jubilee year, I ask you to come with me exactly like that pensive nun. Come with me to that creative, brooding time. Come with me prepared to be still and to listen, to be still and to know, to be still and to follow. That's the way we will redeem this year. That's the way we will let the Lord redeem us. That's the way we will let Him change us, transform us, redirect us. That's the way to celebrate the jubilee year. Be still and know. |
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