On Monday I saw the New Jerusalem.

The church was packed; about a hundred people sat in the vestibule while numerous others watched via closed-circuit TV in the activities building next door. The sea of faces presented every age, shape, and color - all of whom had been touched by this man's life. And in one spirit-filled voice, we sang as God's people:

"How great is our God?
Sing with me...how great is our God?
How great, how great
Is our God?"

This weekend I was asked to do the reading at the funeral of Fr. Christopher Rengers, OFM Cap. In preparing for it, a reflection of my experience of him formed in my mind. I decided to write it down, in hopes that it may be a witness of how great a man Fr. Christopher was.

"I like how you read."

The voice was barely audible over the oxygen maching running behind his wheelchair. Apologetically I asked him to repeat himself. With some strain he repeated himself: "I LIKE HOW YOU READ." He never showed the effort involved in speaking louder, but I could see it in his actions. I felt warm from the compliment, but guilty for causing this frail man pain.

It was the feast day of St. Basil, and I remember entering into the nursing home with a little reservation on seeing the retired friars. I watched my grandparents pass away in a nursing home, and there's a cultural aspect of "sending away the elderly" that I grapple with. And so there are times when I just don't feel up to the visitations. It sounds selfish; it sounds un-Franciscan. Yet it is an honest thought.

These are the times when I have to pray for strength and perseverance. Usually a quick prayer and a brief reflection on why I'm visiting retired friars in the nursing home renews my spirit. I realize that it is for the benefit of the "old guys" just as much as it's a benefit for us "young guys." (I've given up trying to argue that I'm not a "young guy" at 35 years!)

And so with a positive and open attitude we went to see Fr. Christopher that day. We'd been told that he wasn't feeling well and that he was resting a lot, yet when we entered his room, he was still eagerly working on some project or answering mail. For as much as Fr. Christopher worked, he always seemed to set it aside when we came to visit. It is as if he knew what was most important; a balance that even I still struggle with.

And so that day we prayed the Office of Readings in his room. The other Novice and I alternated between the Psalms, and then I read the readings. As I read, Fr. Christopher's eyes were closed. You could tell he was allowing the readings to sink in, the way a child may bask in the light of sun on a warm summer day. At different passages, he would nod his head.

"I like how you read," he told me when I finished. "You're very clear and you take your time. Sometimes I enjoy it more to listen to others read than just reading to myself."

He continued talking a little longer, but even in my strain to listen, I could only pick out a few words here and there. I'd like to think he told me I would be a great preacher someday, or that our arrival made his day better. Or perhaps he imparted some great Capuchin wisdom that was meant only for us two Novices that visited that day. Yet we couldn't hear him, and neither of us were comfortable with making him talk any louder than he could at the time.

---

All these things I sit with now, as I am surrounded by Capuchins here in Our Lady of Angels (formerly St. Augustine's) Church in Pittsburgh. As I prepare to read to Fr. Christopher for the last time, I look and see the old faces of Capuchins mixed with the new faces of guys preparing to join. I see love, not sadness. Even in the short time I had to know Fr. Christopher Rengers, I find it hard to feel sad at his passing. For it is people like Fr. Christopher, those who devote their entire being in the love and understanding of God and God's followers, that truly have earned their eternal reward. Guys like me, still learning the difference between selling a car and Hermaneutics look to friars like Fr. Christopher as a model for how we can be better Capuchins.

Remembering those words: "I like how you read," I prepare to take the ambo as Fr. John Pavlik finishes the Opening Prayer. While I stand before hundreds of people in this church to honor the passing of such a man, my goal is simple: to remember Fr. Christopher's face that day in the nursing home, that serene look of someone basking in the light of the Lord's Word.

Father Christopher Rengers, OFM Cap, died Monday at the Vincentian Home in Pittsburgh. He was 92.

Father Christopher was a noted confessor, spiritual mentor and author. His intense devotion to Our Lady of Guadalupe and St. Joseph was legendary. Many regarded Father Christopher as a saintly Capuchin friar and priest.

He was born March 9, 1917, to Bernard and Elizabeth (Thinnes) Rengers in Pittsburgh. He was baptized at the St. Joseph Church in Bloomfield (Pittsburgh).

Father Christopher is survived by his brother, Gerard Rengers of Evans City. He also leaves many nephews and nieces to mourn his passing.

He entered St. Fidelis Seminary in Herman in 1930. Father Christopher entered the Capuchin Order in 1936 and professed his first vows as a friar on July 14, 1937. He made his solemn profession three years later. Father Christopher was ordained to the priesthood on May 28, 1942.

Father's advanced education included philosophy studies at the St. Fidelis Friary in Victoria, Kan.; theology at the Capuchin College in Washington, D.C.; and psychology at St. Louis University in St. Louis, Mo.

Father Christopher wrote numerous published works, including two Lenten books; a biography of Jacinto Marto, who was one of the three children who were blessed to encounter the Blessed Virgin Mary at Fatima; "The Stations of the Cross for the Elderly"; and a very popular book, "The Thirty-Three Doctors of the Church." He wrote many articles that appeared in various periodicals. Even until a few days before his death, Father Christopher worked on various scholarly and devotional projects.

His first priestly assignment was as chaplain at Visitation Academy in St. Louis, Mo., from 1943 to 1945. His next appointment was teaching at St. Joseph Military Academy in Hays, Kan., and serving as pastor of the St. Severin Church near Hays. Father Christopher was transferred to Herndon, Kan., as parochial vicar of St. Patrick Church in Tully, Kan., and chaplain for Atwood Hospital in Atwood, Kan.

In 1950, Father Christopher was assigned to St. Joseph Parish in Dover, Ohio, and in 1951 he became pastor of St. Patrick Church in Mineral City, Ohio. His ministry in Ohio ended in 1959.

For the next 16 years, Father Christopher labored at St. Charles Borromeo Church in St. Louis. He began his ministry in St. Louis as the Capuchin friars' promoter of vocations. In addition to his regular duties, Father Christopher helped the poor, elderly, immigrants and mentally disabled.

He founded The Capuchin Troupe, a group of amateur actors who performed Father Christopher's dramatic versions of the Passion of Christ and Our Lady of Guadalupe. The troupe performed in many parishes in Missouri and Illinois. In St. Louis, Father also began in earnest his ministry to promote devotion to St. Joseph, designing and promoting the St. Joseph Medal.

In 1975 Father Christopher was transferred to Capuchin College in Washington, D.C. In addition to his ongoing projects, in the nation's capital Father Christopher founded the Queen of the Americas Guild, dedicated to Our Lady of Guadalupe. Twice each year he headed a pilgrimage to Mexico City and the Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

Father Christopher was concerned about many social issues, including the right to life of the unborn. On Jan. 21, 1977, the night before the March for Life in Washington, D.C., he celebrated an evening Mass in the crypt church of the Basilica of the National Shrine. After Mass, Father Christopher and his small group of worshippers maintained a nightlong vigil. That unnoticed beginning has become a nationally televised Mass in the upper church of the Basilica, featuring Cardinals, bishops, priests, religious and an overflowing congregation. The all-night vigil is carried on by thousands of young people from around the country.

At the age of 87, Father Christopher's health necessitated close medical attention and he was assigned to St. Augustine Friary in Pittsburgh in 2004. Four years later, he took up residence at Vincentian Home, where he died.

RENGERS - Visitation and viewing for Father Christopher Rengers, OFM Cap, who died Monday, Jan. 25, 2010, will be from 2 to 4 and 6:30 to 9 p.m. Thursday at the St. Augustine Friary, 221 36th St., Pittsburgh. A wake service will be at 7:30 p.m.

The Mass of Christian Burial will take place at 10:30 a.m. Friday at Our Lady of the Angels Church, formerly known as St. Augustine Church, 200 37th St. Burial will follow at the St. Augustine Cemetery.

http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/butlereagle/obituary.aspx?n=christopher-rengers&pid=138997089

I had the pleasure and the grace to visit Christopher during my Novitiate. He complimented me when I read from the Breviary, blessed us all each time we visited, and gave me encouragement when I told about my Epilepsy. I keep his Guadalupe prayer card in my room, and my rosary that he blessed has been put away.

Continuing with Fr. Charlie Polifka's talk on the three "Give Me's" of Francis of Assisi as seen through his prayer before the San Damiano crucifix, we move to Certain Hope. If you missed the first article on True Faith you can find it here.

For many of us, hope is often articulated in a temporal sense. We hope for ourselves and our families in this world. If someone young is struck down, we hear: "He/she had such high hopes." Even in my own life I have hopes for my future as a friar, I hope and pray for the well-being of my family, my fellow Novices, and for the people I meet each day.

While there is nothing wrong with these hopes (in fact I think we could use a little more hope in the world!), if they remain solely temporal then it is inevitable that our hopes will become dashed.

I'm reminded of a movie I recently watched called Sin Nombre. It's a movie about a girl and her family that leave Honduras in an attempt to come to the United States. In her attempt to go north, she crosses paths with El Casper, a gang member from Southern Mexico who is marked by his own clicke for breaking away. They cross paths and they accompany each other in hopes of reaching the US.

I won't spoil the movie for you (as I think it something everyone should see), but there is a lot of sadness in the movie. The realization of people hoping for a better life, and the discussion in the movie that: "Half of these people won't make it to to America," left me with a sense of hopelessness for those struggling in poverty.

If hope for things in this life are destined to be dashed, what then is certain hope? Is it completely futile to hope and desire for things in this life, be they as benevolent as safety, security, and good will towards your neighbor if these hopes are fleeting? I don't think that's what Fr. Charlie was getting at. Rather, he used a personal experience to describe his interpretation of certain hope. For this article, I borrowed a story from a fellow Novice. It's a story that may resonate with a personal experience of your own:

Years ago as a hospital chaplain, I remember visiting a very sick woman. She was being eaten alive by cancer, and it was expected that she'd live only a few more days. She had no family (at least none that ever visited) and she was in a great deal of pain.

When I first went into her room, I felt like I was the wrong guy for the job. "This woman needs a priest!" I thought, "not some schmuck with a Bible." But she greeted me, and I introduced myself, and we started talking.

We talked about her life, the church she'd gone to, her battle with cancer, the weather...I thought: "If I keep her talking, maybe she won't feel as bad about dying."

During our talk, a nurse came in with a needle. My experience as a hospital chaplain told me there was no medicine for what was ailing this woman; the nurse could only give her something for the pain. Not only did my time at the hospital tell me this, but I could read it on the expression of the nurse's face.

Very politely, the dying woman says to the nurse before she can even say a word: "Oh no, but thank you, dear. That stuff will put me to sleep. I'm dying, and I want to be awake when the Lord comes for me."

The nurse tried to reason with her, telling her that it would relieve the pain.

"The pain's not so bad," she responded. "And this nice young man and I are talking. Thank you dear, but I'll be all better soon enough."

I could see the nurse trembling slightly, doing her best not to burst into tears. She left the room as those tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

"Poor thing," the woman said to me as the nurse left. With a concern look she said: "Perhaps you should talk to her for a bit."

I was breathless. "Why would I need to see her?" I asked in response. "You're the one who's dying. My job is to be with you during this time."

She smiled at me and gave me a dismissive wave. "Dear, I already know where I'm headed. But that young lady," she said, referring to the nurse, "She needs some hope right now."

Certain hope is more than just our desires or our dreams. It is a reality we choose to accept and incorporate into our lives. As Pope Benedict writes in Spe Salvi: "Eternal, in fact, suggests to us the idea of something interminable, and this frightens us; life makes us think of the life that we know and love and do not want to lose, even though very often it brings more toil than satisfaction, so that while on the one hand we desire it, on the other hand we do not want it." (12)

Our challenge to live certain hope is to look at the eternal life and accept that as a reality for us as Catholic Christians. Even in the life of Francis, as he prepares to die in the Portiuncula, he recognizes that "Eternal life is." And the sooner we can come to this certain hope here on Earth, how much better followers of Christs could we be!

Certain hope is our preparation for the eternal life, a divesting of self as preparation for a new life with Christ. Again, it can be seen as a form of "death on Earth" as our path leads us to be followers of Christ.

This is the 2nd article in a three part series.

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We stood like soldiers in our black suits, protecting the casket of our departed grandmother. I had convinced the family to only allow the 3rd generation to move the casket, allowing my uncles to be with their families during the Mass and ceremony. As our aunts and uncles wept, we stood like statues in the sun.

Before we left the church, I'd made a deal with the Father to allow me to speak to the family before the lowering of the casket into the ground. I wasn't sure what I was going to say...but we'd been strong long enough. I'd been strong long enough. And I was ready to speak my peace before my family.

So as we stood huddled at the grave where my grandmother would be laid to rest, I did the best I could to say goodbye. (I spoke from the heart and don't remember the exact speech, but this was as close as I can remember):

"I know my mother has lost her mom, just like my other cousins. And we've done our best to be strong and support each of you in this time of grieving. We've heard hundreds of stories of your childhood...all of them wonderful.

"However we, the next generation have our own memories of Grandma. My eldest cousin is 51; my youngest is 16. I speak on behalf of your sons and daughters...each of us with our own wonderful memories of Grandma.

"We know she loved us because there was always food, and always a bed to sleep on.

"We know she worried about us, because she'd yell at us if we were climbing trees or near the grain silos."

"We know she thought of us, because she'd always buy us Christmas presents, even after we grew up."

"But what is important is that we, the third, fourth, and fifth generations here today, remember both our grandmother and grandfather. It's important to remember that we came from nothing, and that our family struggled to survive. Today we are successful teachers, nurses, bankers, and managers. But we can never forget that everything we are, we are because of the tireless work of Trina and Jesus Martinez...two migrant workers looking for a better life."

I made it through my monologue without losing it. And at the end of the day, after family members had thanked me for saying those kind words, I realized how important that charism of humility and ministry to the poor really was. Here I was....living the manufactured ideal of what success truly means: a good job, no worries of money, a nice car. Yet my grandparents, now both passed, lived good lives without half of the objects I currently own. How best to honor the lives of my ancestors? How best to give back the blessings that were given to me?

I learned two things, two important things, after finally returning to Grand Rapids. First I realized how attracted I was to the Franciscan sense of spirituality. Second, I learned if I could minister to my family, I could minister to anyone. I no longer felt inadequate, and I became excited at the thought of giving a homily, or just preaching wherever I can.

In the weeks after, I would deal with my workaholic tendencies, I'd struggle to continue my discernment, and I take a trip to Detroit.

Stay tuned as I fill in the gaps from the middle of September to the present.

In less than a week, I will no longer be a salesman. On Tuesday I will give up the greatest career I've had in my life, and take a job with less hours to better reflect on the upcoming year.

Later this month, I will have interviews with the Vocation Director of the Capuchins, with their psychologists, their doctors, and a host of other people to decide if I am capable of applying to the order.

This is no new decision. It's something I've been pondering for months. Over the summer, several things have made me realize the path I should take. Unfortunately, much of that time was unchronicled because of my busy schedule.

Over the next few days, as I continue to deliver current news, I will share some stories of the past few months, and how they've helped me arrive at this point in my life.

The first and the hardest part: the death of my grandmother.

September of 2007 will be remembered as a pivotal role in my discernment, because of the death of my grandmother. A proud, hard-working, and faithful woman, my grandmother lived the life of a poor migrant worker. My family looked to me for guidance. They looked to me for strength. While my mother, aunts, and uncles battled the emotion of losing their mother, I as the eldest of the third generation of the Martinez family tried to be strong for everyone else.

I was asked about Heaven and Hell. I was asked about Extreme Unction. I was asked about Purgatory. While I didn't have all the answers, they felt comfortable hearing words. It set their mind at ease, if only because they had someone to listen to the tough questions. It was as if my family already thought I was a priest.

The Saturday before she died, I remember driving down to be with the family. We were at the hospital for a while, and my mom and aunts talked about heading to someones house to get some rest. I said I wanted to drive for a bit, and left in my own vehicle.

That night I drove around South Bend, completely lost in my own thoughts. I cruised around the town until 11:30PM, not knowing much of what to think or do. I was confused. I was sad. I was in pain.

After hours of thinking and rattling my brain, I realized what was bothering me. I'd told most of the family about my discernment, and how I was looking into the Capuchins. However I'd never told my grandmother. I kept it from her when she was healthy because I was unsure, and there's no way I could explain how complicated my decision was. Now, when time was almost too late, there's no way she'd even know.

At midnight I returned to the hospital, and the nurses let me into her room without question. For the first time, I was alone with my grandmother who was no longer responsive. I sat by her bed, and talked to her for the first time in a long time.

"Grandma. It's me. Soy Vito.

"Grandma, I know you can still hear me. There's something I've wanted to tell you for a long time. I think God's calling me to be a priest, Grandma, and I don't know what to do. I'm scared that I'm not good enough. I'm scared of changing my life.

"But I'm gonna try. I think I've found where God wants me to serve, and I think I know what he wants me to do. I think he just wants me to be happy. I don't know if I'm smart enough, or holy enough. But I'm really gonna try."


In tears, I sat with my Grandmother as I sit in front of this notebook, overwhelmed by the feelings of grief, feelings of complete humility, and the total honesty of what my feelings are. I'll never know exactly what road I should be on unless I make the next big step.

Even now, I'm still not sure.

...but I'm going to try.

Inevitably the death of a loved one causes drama within a family. Whether it's squabbling over an inheritance, arguing over funeral costs, blaming each other for past sins, families find a way to make a sad event even worse. My family is no exception, and I've tried to focus my will on healing those wounds.

Due to financial reasons, the majority of my family (by that I mean my mom and 8 aunts & uncles) decided to have my grandmother cremated. There would be a Mass, then a small service, and then we would have whatever plans afterward. There would be no viewing, no casket, no plot, and of course no headstone. I've become the consigliere regarding Canon Law and the proper Catholic way to do things.

Earlier today there was discussion of changing the cremation to a full funeral with burial. Two of my uncles said they would pay a large portion themselves while allowing the rest to only pay a small part. A debate quickly ensued about who was responsible for how much, who had already made large contributions towards my grandmother's care, and what was best. Initially the question was simply about money.

As I listened to them talk and squabble, I surprised them by offering to pay the unpaid amount:

"If the remaining balance is only $1900, I have that in my account. I'll gladly pay for it, but is it what all of you want?"

I was given several looks, the grandson willing to pony up for his grandma's funeral, before I was told to keep my money, because I needed it. I told them that if they felt a funeral would make the difference, if that is what would bring full closure, then go for it. But if that's not what Grandma would want, people spending lots of money on her, then why go through the extra hassle?

I've spoken with the family regarding Catholics and cremation, and they know what needs to be done. My hope is that they focus not just on ceremonies, but on their love for their mother and their desire for her spirit to be with God in Heaven.

As Samuel L. Jackson said: "I'm tryin', Ringo. I'm tryin' real hard to be the shepherd."

It's almost morbid...I sit here writing while I can see my aunt giving my grandmother water on a sponge. But in reality, I don't know what else to do but write.

I'm here with my mother and my aunt. A few hours earlier, I got an idea to say something other than the rosary. I felt that as this time draws close, something more needed to be said besides 10 Ave Maria's and a Noster Pater.

At midnight I lead the Litany for the Dying with my mother kneeling at my grandmother's bedside. I felt it important not just for the petitions to God, but as a way for my family to accept some sense of closure by commencing her soul to the Lord.

I was nervous and I felt I was the wrong person to be doing any kind of prayer ministry. I asked for God's grace to help me.

There's more to tell, but every minute is critical here. In a way, I chastise myself for hoping God takes her soon. I want her to not suffer. I want her to stop being in pain. I want her to be the strong woman I remember.

Despite those feelings, I would eagerly perform the Litany again. For my grandmother or anyone else's.

I went to see my grandma today
I learned the difference
Between living and alive

Wall to wall roaches in a
2 x 4 infested room
Lying there in pain
Praying for the Lord to take her

Nora, I hope it won't be too long for you
Nora, All these years you've been so strong
Nora, I hope you don't mind if I call you Nora
Cause I love you.

After leaving her, I turned my life around
I see new life differently
Through the vision of old
And all material things don't mean that much to me
I guess I learned that
I'm just glad to be alive and healthy

Nora, all this time that you have known me
Nora, it took your whole life just to show me
Nora, how we take some things for granted
Nora, Nora, Nora, cause I love you.

Though I know there wasn't long to go
Time is something that we shared
And when you died
I didn't cry for long
Cause I believe I'll see you again

Nora, I'll see you on the other side
Nora, I'll be the one with swallowed pride
Nora, are you sure you don't mind if I call you Nora

I love you.

-Blessed Union of Souls


Please keep me and my family in your prayers.

I don't feel like typing anymore this week.