Home

"Home at last, home at last.. thank God, I'm home at last."

Don't get me wrong. I love Notre Dame dearly, and if I had my way I would happily live out the remainder of my days there, taking classes and teaching. It is the most Catholic environment I have ever encountered (this side of the Atlantic, anyway), with a living community of some of the most devoted Catholics I have ever met and the most sincere priests I have ever encountered. It is certainly some of the most beautiful acres in the nation. Further, Our Lord is present is no less than 40 chapels in that small area; and, devastated as some of the chapels may be, for this reason Notre Dame has been called a "Eucharistic City." Physically, socially, spiritually, Notre Dame is a blessing, blessedly undisguised.

But there is something about a week of grueling finals that makes one really, profoundly appreciate a full, backwards retreat home. And there is nothing more enjoyable than coming home to family, in my book. After a year of study I can say, for example, that my family is the ecclesia domestica (yeah, I'm not going to look up the correct Latin), the initial community of persons that initiated me into the communio personarum that is the Church which, in turn, initiates us all into a vibrant life in Christ, mystical body and Spiritual Head. But for now, I'd rather experience family than describe it, eat dinner together than consider the implications of eating dinner together. I'm done. Er, finished. (does Nihil Obstat still haunt this blog??)

But one thing I truly love returning to is my parish -- St. John's. St. John's. Between Masses, the year is still 1954. The lights of our 1940's neo-Gothic edifice fade out, and suddenly the reredos and sanctuary look like the painted backdrop from a film starring Fr. Bing Crosby. I love that. Before Mass, just as the parish rosary ends, the electric small pipe organ takes up Ave Maria, sung beautifully by the choir. The pews are filled and stragglers stand in the back. The cassocked servers light candles just as the electric lights fade on, and we fast-forward straight to, oh, about 1968 for the duration of the Mass. The people are admonished to stop gossiping about the next pastor appointment and reminded to dress modestly during the coming summer in consideration of Our Lord's Eucharistic Presence; the culture of death is denounced to families of 5 or 6 who have already taken that message to heart; bells ring, communion plates flash; and with a round of "Immaculate Mary," the building warps back another 10 years.

St. John's is really a puzzle; how its culture remained utterly unchanged through 1975-2002 I can only attribute to the pastor we had during that entire time. Our renovations that followed Vatican II were perhaps the only renovations in the county where a (simple) Gothic reredos and a side altar were ADDED. Yet the people themselves get some credit; the new pastor wanted to stop with the bells, but no one would have it. Nonetheless he is quite an impressive priest, teaching the Confirmation classes himself and managing to quote some papal encyclical in every homily. Basically, it is just the witness of vibrant parish life that eases the thought that some day, some day soon, we will have to leave Notre Dame and the Catholic community we've found there -- but, luckily, I realized this morning, not only there