The car flipped over 10 times. Maybe 15. I woke up to steel smashing against cement, over and over, over and over. Glass shattered and flew in my face and hair.

My parish decided to “own” the response to the sexual abuse scandal. One year later, this is what we’ve learned.

I pray we are merely on temporarily divergent, independent journeys to our best personal selves so that, someday, we can meet again downstream in conjoined bliss. 

As the rest of the congregation, myself included, averted our eyes as our Lord stood in our midst, this man did not look away.

Upon hearing about some unthinkable violence somewhere in the world, the first thing I do when I get to the church on Sunday morning is pencil another intention into the prayers of the faithful. In some small way, it feels like a solemn duty.

As a priest, ignoring my own emotions and how they may interact with the joys and pains of another is not an option.