Deacon Dan Wright

Relations Severed with Amnesty International

Due to the decision of Amnesty International to support abortion as a putative means to curb violence against women, the Texas Catholic Conference has issued the following directive:

We, the Bishops of Texas are instructing all parish and diocesan staff and other Catholic organizations to no longer support financially nor through publicity, nor participate in joint projects or events sponsored by the organization known as Amnesty International. This instruction is based on Amnesty International’s decision to limit its human rights agenda by promoting abortion as a way to curb violence against women, especially women in developing countries. In promoting abortion, Amnesty divides its own members, many of whom are Catholics, and others who defend the rights of unborn children and jeopardizes its support by people in many nations, cultures and religions who share a consistent commitment to all human rights. Our assessment is that Amnesty International is now violating its original mission to protect human rights worldwide and has lost its moral credibility.

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Having held Amnesty International in esteem since since the days of my young adulthood, it is a terrible disappointment to learn of the shortsightedness of their decision.  Indeed Amnesty has lost all credibility as an organization that stands for human rights.

Furthermore, their decision serves to indicate how a blatantly anti-human point of view can become accepted within society as somehow intended to protect women against violence.  Clearly there must exist a more honest and straightforward means of condemning violence against women than promoting it against the unborn.  We must stand ardently against all forms of violence and against every injustice that makes violence possible.  In this case, with profound irony, we must stand against Amnesty International.

Sunday Homily: Increase Our Faith

Something to live by: this is the faith that God gives us. It is the sure truth—the sacred deposit—handed to us by the apostles. It is that which strengthens us and encourages us. It is the object of our longing and desire, that which we cling to as the substance of our hope of things to come.

No wonder the disciples requested of Jesus, "Increase our faith." They knew well the rich tradition of faith being the substance of salvation. It was nothing hidden from them since scripture clearly proclaimed it. Perhaps what they really were saying was "Jesus, make us more like you."

When we look deeply into our own hearts we may find that we are not all that different from those disciples who requested an increase in faith. We too would like a little more faith, especially to get us through some of the more difficult times we face—times perhaps when there are doubts. Everyone has them, and we'd all enjoy being a little more like Jesus in those times.

However, first we should take a closer look at what Jesus was, in fact, like. Specifically, we should ask, "What was Jesus' faith like?" Unquestionably, we should strive to be like Jesus: he is the model of right relationship with God—the God whom he called Abba Father—the God whom he called, in a very human way, Daddy.

It does us good to bear in mind that in his humanity Jesus was like us: certainly he had times of doubt like us. The portrayal of Jesus in Gethsemane leading up to his passion shows him wrestling with tremendous doubt.

In all things except sin he was like us. He was tempted like us. He got tired, he ate, he drank—indeed Jesus was fully human. When we consider the faith that Jesus had we must first consider how his humanity shaped his faith. In his divinity he chose to become one of us fully, completely, in order to save us: he poured out the divine to be like one of us, to show us the path of faith. Jesus totally understood human faith. It was God's will and desire to look like one of us and in every way to be like one of us.

Here, perhaps, we see why the disciples get a little bit of a scolding when they ask for more faith. It's like Jesus is telling them to use what they have already. Could it be that each one of us is endowed with the same ability to have faith as everyone else? Could the increase of faith be up to us alone? In our human capacity to have faith are we any different from Jesus? It appears to me that in the gospel Jesus is telling the disciples "Hey, as human beings you've got the same potential and ability that I have—use it."

What we are to have—what we are to be given—in terms of spirituality, that is, in terms of the quantity and quality of our spiritual lives, has to do with how we go about using the potential we have already.

In the second reading today St. Paul reminds his beloved son in the faith of the gift, the sacred deposit, that was given to him. "Put to work what you have already," he tells him. The key to understanding for Timothy, and for us, is in the words "bear your share of hardship for the gospel with the strength that comes from God."

Faith is about being able to take the mundane, ordinary, and often difficult tasks at hand, and to do something extraordinary with them: to bear everyday hardships as a gift from God, and as a sacred opportunity—to put faith into action regardless of how mundane our everyday jobs may seem.

Though I would never take what I do lightly, sometimes I jokingly refer to my daily work of being a special education teacher as penance, but it's really no joke at all—I see it as an opportunity for my faith to mature in an everyday setting, and for me to grow in holiness. As a convert I learned that Catholics traditionally offered up their hardships for the poor souls in purgatory.

Interestingly, I've learned there's a great deal of value in that. At least I can tell you that my soul on most days is in state of being purified, so it makes sense at least that I can offer my hardships as penance for my own shortcomings. Faith also teaches us to offer our everyday experiences, our difficult times, for others as well. It's true that all we do is connected. Christ has no body now but yours. My salvation is intimately connected to your salvation.

As followers of Jesus we can come to accept our daily tasks and responsibilities as opportunities to put faith to work, whether it be the burden of paperwork or house work, changing tires or changing diapers—or perhaps meeting an impending production deadline, or solving a seemingly impossible engineering problem. In the eyes of faith the everyday world is the greatest gift.

The Psalmist tells us "Harden not your heats as at Meribah, as in the day of Massah in the desert." Rather, take you have been given—as much as it so richly is—and put it to work. Spiritually speaking, the increase of faith comes about, simply said, from using what you have already.

This Says it All

Need I say more?  It seems to me as if the past couple weeks had a whole month rolled into them--never mind.  I'm just grousing a little.  Who knows, perhaps I will shovel myself out and begin posting regularly in the next couple days.

There are days when being a teacher at a giant school and being a deacon at a humongous parish have a lot in common.  The two combined are often more than many people would care to accept.  It's not that I would ever want to stop serving in either capacity.  Both are what I consider to be a directive given from on high. 

Actually, I think something interesting is that I get a sense of anonymity, both at the parish and the school.  I can take my child to religious education, myself dressed in jeans, t-shirt and sunglasses and often no one knows me!  My religious education name badge just says "Dan Wright."  There's no "Deacon" in front of it.  When I show up on Monday nights to teach religious education for cognitively disabled kids I'm just Mr. Wright, or Dan.

"Mr. Wright," the voice on the phone in my room says, "please come get your child--he's being disruptive."

I get the same sense of anonymity walking through the halls at the school--I'm new there so many people don't know me, excluding some of the folks in my wing, and two or three who are from my parish.

What I'm trying to get at tonight--beyond rambling--has to do with disability.  I find myself being acutely aware of situations where I feel anonymous, but what about having a sense or feeling of invisibility?  I have to admit that as an able-bodied and able-minded (mostly) person I have rarely felt invisible--low key, yes, but rarely not seen by others.

Something I notice about disability in our society is that people would often rather look the other way.  It comes from when we were kids ourselves and our mothers taught us that it was not polite to stare at people who were "crippled" or "mentally retarded."  We carry it right into our adult lives and find ourselves preferring not to see people with disabilities.  We are blind often to a world that demands to be addressed and recognized--and certainly included in everything.

Funny enough, looking out from underneath my snowstorm of paperwork (forget answering emails), I notice quite a bit.  Maybe it's because I'm a parent too, and there's just something about getting that call from my own child's school--or even the parish--that gets to me. "Mr. Wright, your child is being disruptive" translates into "Mr. Wright, your child is becoming visible."

Part of the reason my wife and I decided to start a program at the parish for the religious education of children with cognitive disabilities was because it wasn't being offered anywhere else--the other part of the reason had to do with our own child.  However, beyond simply providing a class at the church for kids with disabilities, we wanted to get the kids into the regular classrooms.  We wanted other people to see them--to see these kids as just kids.  Yet it will always be a fight, or so it seems.  However, if we lose the fight, or if our program fails because we just weren't willing to go to the trouble, it's more than just an ugly black eye in the end.  What we do for the one's who get the least consideration in this life reveals our true attitude about the whole.  It reveals the depth of the Holy in us.

It's more than a bit disappointing to get a call from the parish and hear that several RE teachers had problems with kids being a little bit too...out of the ordinary, less than normal, or maybe just too visible.  "The teachers are just volunteers after all," I am told, "and they don't have any special training."  Still, I've got to wonder...what special training is necessary to be patient and maybe tolerant of a kid that gets up and walks around or perhaps sings a song to himself or herself?  If it is truly a matter of disruption, I've found that a stern "sit down," or "please be quiet" will do the trick most of the time.  However, it's a little hard to address someone you can't see.

There are a lot of days as a public school special education teacher when I feel like special training only counts for ten minutes of the day.  The rest of it is being open and tolerant, and the reason why I consider what I do at the public school to be part of my ministry as a deacon is because it requires the acceptance of my students--and every single thing about them--as being made in the same image of God that everyone else is.

Now, one final question, and this one really is a test that counts: who is it really that we are rejecting when we send away or refuse to see these little ones?