Skip to main content

What NOT to Wear

The Vatican has announced that it is enforcing its dress code for visitors.  It's nothing oppressive:  no shorts, women's shoulders need to be covered.  If someone violates it, a Swiss Guard quietly asks them to come back when they are more appropriately attired.

I want to post a Swiss Guard at the entrance of every Catholic church in America.

I know that we are living in an increasingly casual society.  We don't do the whole nylons-gloves-hat thing anymore.  That's okay.  I must ask, though:  isn't there some middle ground between ballgown formal and showing up in the grocery store in your pajamas???????

Yes, there is that inevitable:  "God doesn't care what you wear."  I'm not so sure about that.  Even the biggest slob will agree that the clothes one wears affect how you feel and act.  Most of us behave with more decorum at a business dinner with the boss than at the Saturday morning soccer game.  Certainly, if one was invited to dinner at the White House, the general concensus would be that your old Bud Light t-shirt and some flip-flops wouldn't cut it.

Why do we insist that God doesn't care?  Why is it so hard for us to give Him our best?  Doesn't wearing our best signal to us, to those around us and to God:  "Hey, this is important.  I want to be at my best, physically and spiritually.  I know I'm going before the King of Kings, and I want to enter His Court in a way that is worthy of Him"?  Instead, many of us grab whatever will be most comfortable later on that afternoon on the boat and figure it's good enough. 

Jesus is not any less present in your parish church than He is at St. Peter's and more importantly, He's not any less present in our churches than He is in Heaven, or when He was walking around on earth.  You really want to meet your Lord and Savior wearing THAT?  Don't make the nice Swiss Guard ask you to leave......and look at how nicely that Swiss Guard is dressed.....

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Trying to "end run" God

If you're a football fan, you know what an end run is. From Merriam-Webster:
a football play in which the ballcarrier attempts to run wide around the end of the line We try to "end run" God a lot. I do. I figure I know better. I've got this - no need to worry the Big Guy about such a trivial thing.

Of course, it never works.

Like the puppy above, when we try and evade the tough obstacle (even though we KNOW we will eventually have to do it), we end up - well, off in the bushes.

But oh! How I wished my way worked. I'd love to take a flying leap and land smoothly and gracefully. People would be in awe, as if watching Simone Biles nail a balance beam routine that no one else would even attempt. I would shyly look down and blush - just lightly - and acknowledge (But humbly! Oh so humbly!) my achievement.

But no: I am the one pulling myself out of the bushes, scratches all over my legs and twigs in my hair. I'd hear that gentle but loving voice of God saying, &quo…

Secret Santa!!

Too old for Santa? I think not.

Yes, there are discussions as to whether we should "lie" to kids and tell them that Santa brings them gifts vs. We can't lie to the kids; it's wrong.

There is also the "Christmas is about Jesus" vs. "But Santa is magical!"

You know, we have so few magical and joyful moments, and less and less as we get older. Santa is fun. And the kids usually figure it out, and no one I know was ever scarred for life for believing that Santa brought them and every child everywhere a toy for Christmas.

It's the magic of looking up at the sky on a clear December night, thinking "I'll wait up to see Santa" and later, as you fell asleep at the window, being in your daddy's arms as he carries you to bed.

It's the magic of putting out cookies and milk (or beer, because Santa does like beer) and maybe some carrots for the reindeer, and then checking in the morning to make sure the food was all consumed.

It's…

Advent Brokenness

It was a lovely May evening, the kind we in Michigan savor like honey. After the brutal cold of winter, flowers blossomed, grass greened, mosquitoes flocked. School was almost done for the year - just the formalities of 8th grade graduation were ahead.

Why not saddle up the horse and go for a ride? Why not, indeed. So my sister and I did. I took Prince out across the road from our house, to romp through the weeds on a path my father mowed for us. The view from horseback on a spring night - well, nearly Heaven.

Until Prince bolted. He spooked. I fell. And my arm broke. Compound fracture.

My dog, a collie, had followed us out. He was not particularly trusting of Prince, as Prince would never allow himself to be herded, and this vexed my collie. My dog, channeling his inner Lassie, ran home without me.

My sister had been in the yard with her boyfriend at the time, Gary, waiting for me to come back. Instead, it was just the dog loping across the road. That didn't seem right, so my si…