Video Killed the Radio Star?

Bless me father for I have sinned. I have been listening to the 80's channel on Sirius XM and feel quite guilty about it.

I am not sure why I am drawn to this station so much; perhaps it is the original MTV VJs who I watched incessantly (much to my mother’s dismay) in my formative years or perhaps I am living out some “Peter Pan” type issues, but I just cant turn away from the sounds of Cindy Lauper, Tears for Fears, and Simple Minds. One thing is for certain; it certainly takes me back to a time in my life when things were simpler.

The other day I was treated to the sounds of Video Killed the Radio Star by The Buggles. Ironically, Mark Goodman introduced it on the radio. Looking back, the popularity of music videos and MTV certainly changed who could be a pop star; it was no longer good enough to have talent, you also had to have looks.

This was a change in convention, not unlike the change in conventions experienced as a result of Christianity.

In the days before Abraham, the known world was largely polytheistic in that people worshiped many gods. The actions of Abraham and, of course, Moses, would change the convention of polytheism and move civilization towards Monotheism. The changing of conventions, though, did not end with Judaism.

In the days of Christ, the area where He lived was under Roman rule and many were expecting the savior to be a great warrior delivering them from foreign rule. That Christ taught about loving neighbors, “giving Ceaser what is Ceaser’s,” and care for the poor/lowly, confused leaders of the time. That His influence was so strong was a threat to existing conventions.

Changes to convention are of course met with resistance; just like there were accomplished musicians who resisted the MTV phenomenon, there were leaders at the time who resisted the message of Christ. Luckily, there were those who embraced this message and who were courageous enough to spread it under fear of imprisonment, torture, and death.

That Christianity and Roman Catholicism have survived over 2,000 years with the odds stacked against them is testament to how powerful the messages of love, charity, generosity, and forgiveness really are. Of course, we would not have made it so far if it were not for those early martyrs who gave their lives for the faith. Likewise, we would not be able to practice our faith in community with others if it were not for the men who answer their calling towards the Priesthood.

In this year for Priests, I ask that each and every one of you reading this post remember to keep not only your parish priests in your prayers but also all those young men who are discerning a vocation towards the priesthood.

A Life Worth Noting

Growing up as a Catholic boy in Stamford, I went through a rite of passage that my older brother and countless others experienced before me; I became an altar server. While there were those boys whose parents “strongly encouraged” them to serve their parish in this manner, my motivations were different; I was in it for the money.

My family belonged to St. Gabriel Parish on Newfield Avenue, which is also where I attended middle school. One of my fellow altar boys, who was a bit older than I and “retiring” from the “club” clued me in on a little secret; when you serve mass at a funeral, you are likely to earn a tip. Furthermore, funeral masses in our parish tended to be at 10 am in the morning during weekdays; as such, if I were scheduled to serve a funeral mass I would not only earn a little extra money, but also be legitimately excused from class. Jackpot!

Even at twelve I was a bit entrepreneurial so, while entering the Church on a Sunday morning, I would always pick up a bulletin and scan it to see if anyone had died that week. If so, I would approach our pastor and ask if he needed any help with the funeral. Father Bob was always more than happy to accept my offer of service and I not only had a ticket out of Ms. Gullo’s Literature class, I would likely have enough money for a new cassette tape (it was the 1980s after all).

In my two years attending St. Gabriel School, I likely served 20 funerals. Initially, it was difficult to see the grief worn by those who came to mourn the deceased; however, over time, I started to become immune to it. Thankfully, I have not had to attend too many funerals since those days in the late 80s.

Last week, however, I found myself sitting in a pew at a St. Cecilia Church to pay my respects to a former neighbor, John Marsalisi. That the church, one of the larger Roman Catholic churches in Stamford, was as crowded as it was serves as witness to the number of lives that John touched in his all to brief 54 years on this planet.

As I sat waiting for the funeral mass to start, I thought to myself this will not be hard to get through. After all, I had so much practice going to funerals in my youth, I was not fearful of shedding a tear. Then, it hit me. As I saw John’s wife Ann being escorted down the aisle by her four children, I felt the tears well up in my eyes and I lost it. I was so full of sympathy for the young family left behind by this untimely death that my only response was to start crying.

The sadness I experienced at the funeral was broken briefly by the sound of children playing. It sounded like they were right underneath all of us sitting in the church. Then I remembered that on cold winter days, the students of St. Cecilia School have gym class in the church hall, located in the basement of the church. What a nice contrast; while we were celebrating the end of one life, we were treated to the joy experienced by those in the beginning of theirs.

Ever since I heard of John Marsalisi’s passing, I scanned my local newspaper for a story on him. Certainly a man who impacted so many lives through his commitment to the community would have an article devoted to his life and untimely passing. Instead, I kept seeing a story on a rectory facing demolition. This inanimate object has no feelings and its demolition would leave no widow or children behind. From what I have read, it is not even usable in its present condition.

As such, I am left with a sobering thought; we sometimes are so blinded by our passion to fight for “little” things that the really important things, life for instance, are often ignored. As we enter 2010, I hope that we as a society choose to devote our time, talents, and resources to things that matter and will have a positive impact on others in the community. RIP John Marsalisi; I will pray for the repose of your soul and for the beautiful family left behind by your untimely passing.

The Fuse

Today I have the unenviable task of putting all of the Christmas decorations away. It seems that it was just yesterday when the kids and I took them down from the attic and I remember completing that task with excitement and anticipation. Today's task, however, is met with sadness; it is hard to believe that another Christmas has come and gone.

This year, my kids made Advent wreaths at school. I am looking at them now and am sad that I have to put them away; not the kids but their wreaths. Since we light one candle a week for four weeks, each wreath has four candles of slightly different lengths. I don't look at these candles, though, as having slow burning wicks; rather, I see them as having fast burning fuses. The Sunday's of advent went past me in the blink of an eye and suddenly, BANG, it was Christmas day. The burned wax on each candle a subtle reminder that the flame that burns down the wick forever alters the candle's shape.

The holiday season is like that as well. As we moved through the Sundays of Advent we were preparing ourselves for the coming of Christ. Those of us who look to Advent as a time for reflection, and not simply a countdown clock for Santa Claus, should leave the liturgical seasons of Advent and Christmas as changed people; as altered as the candles on our Advent wreaths.

I hope that all of you who follow my musings had a very merry Christmas. I wish all of you health, happiness, and prosperity in the new year.

Hitting Curveballs

When I as knee high to a grasshopper (who says that?) I played in the Springdale Little league for Palmer’s Market (which, like some of the other sponsors including Handyman Hardware and Machlette Laboratories, is no longer in business in Springdale). I remember having a hard time hitting curveballs (to be truthful, I had a hard time hitting anything – the only thing that explained my on base percentage was the fact that my smart ass attitude was a target for pitchers). I think I have a permanent Rawlings tattoo on my left hip!

I remember one game in particular where Palmer’s Market was playing my brother’s team, Handyman Hardware. On my grandmother’s gave, the opposing pitcher was 11 feet tall and had blond hair. He kind of reminded me of William Zabka; the actor who played Johnny Lawrence, the antagonist in the Karate Kid. Any rate, he threw a curveball that curved right towards my body on its journey from the mound to the plate. Being a righty, it slammed into my left hip. I was down for the count. When I took my base, the first base coach asked me, “why didn’t you get out of the way?” I replied, “I did not see it coming.” No more words were spoken between us, but his expression said it all, ‘maybe its time for glasses.’

It dawned on me yesterday though that long after our ball playing days are over, the curveballs keep coming, albeit in different forms. Consider the following events which unfolded over a 12 hour period yesterday;

1. As I was waiting to board a flight from New York to San Diego, I spilled coffee on the only dress shirt I brought on the trip (I was only to be gone overnight). No problem, I said to myself, I was going to have 4 hours to kill once I landed in San Diego as my focus groups were only going to start at 5:30.

2. As we approach the San Diego area, the pilot comes on and tells us that we are being diverted to Long Beach due to bad weather in San Diego. Bad weather? Really? It rains once a decade in San Diego and I have to fly on the day of an apparent monsoon. Okay, stay calm, it will all work out.

3. We land in Long Beach and the pilot does not know how long we will be there. However, anyone with a carry on bag can deplane and make their own transportation arrangements to get to San Diego. Having friends who were stuck on an airplane for 30 hours, I decided to deplane and rent a car. It is only about 119 miles to San Diego from Long Beach and I had 4 hours to make it. This should not have been a problem only for the fact that A. the GPS I rented did not work and B. people in Southern California apparently don’t know how to drive in the rain. It was stop and go as I got onto the 405 S.

At this point, I was fuming. I thought I was going to miss my focus groups; a first in my career. Then, as I was driving south, I saw a break in the clouds and the sun came out for a brief moment. Something caught my periphery vision; the biggest and brightest rainbow I had ever seen in my life. I felt as if I could open my window and touch it. I then looked to my right and saw the Pacific Ocean. I could not help but smile at its beauty. So, I decided to do what one does in such situations and turn on the radio. The first song I heard was Simple Minds’ Alive and Kicking:

You turn me on, you lift me up

And like the sweetest cup I'd share with you

You lift me up, don't you ever stop, I'm here with you

Now it's all or nothing

'Cause you say you'll follow through

You follow me, and I, I, I follow you

What you gonna do when things go wrong?

What you gonna do when it all cracks up?

What you gonna do when the Love burns down?

What you gonna do when the flames go up?

Who is gonna come and turn the tide?

What's it gonna take to make a dream survive?

Who's got the touch to calm the storm inside?

Who's gonna save you?

Alive and Kicking

What an appropriate message to receive at that point in time! Suddenly, I felt the stress and frustration which were on my back like a monkey leave me as I traveled south towards San Diego. I then started to reflect on the topic of the night's focus groups; the US Army. Images of soldiers I had seen in airports reunited with their families after a long deployment only increased my happiness. The thought of soldiers thousands of miles away engaged in war and separated from their families during the holidays made me think that my current ordeal was nothing compared to what they face.

I made it to San Diego with 15 minutes to spare before my first focus group. Not enough time to get a new shirt so I just started off the session making fun of my own clumsiness; group participants always like it when the moderator is a bit self deprecating. The groups went great and I felt as if I did a great job for my client.

At the end of the night I realized that, after 35 years, I finally managed to hit a curveball.

The Advent Adventure

We children of the 80s hold a special place in our hearts for 1985’s Back to the Future. Imagine being able to travel backwards or forwards in time with nothing but a used DeLorean, a Flux Capacitor, and, of course, some plutonium stolen from Libyan nationalists. I know stealing is a sin but let’s face it; they were up to no good with it.

What would we do with such ability? I can think of a few actions I would like to erase from Carlon history; like the time I poured chocolate milk down my parents brand new hi-fi during a big party at our home or the time I said something really hurtful to someone close to me. In short, I would rather change some poor decisions I made rather than take a trip into the future to see who will win the 2010 World Series and make some serious cash by placing a winning bet (that said, I don’t need a time machine to know that it will likely not be the NY Mets).

What does this have to do with Advent? Last night my wife asked me to describe the significance of Advent to her and the kids. I’d like to think I learned something in my K-12 Catholic education so I offered the following reply.

Advent is a time of anticipation. It is a formal time set aside for us to reflect on whether or not we are ready to accept a savior into our hearts; and all that doing so entails. That Advent has its own season suggests it is a time to retreat from our regular lives to identify any obstacles we may have put up through our actions that may prevent us from fully experiencing the Christmas miracle.

Advent then becomes adventure; a time to identify our shortcomings, map a plan to overcome those shortcomings, and begin a journey down a more Christ like path.

While we don’t have Dr. Emmett Brown’s time machine at our disposal to erase the poor decisions of our past, we do have one tool that can help us prepare for the miracle of Christmas in our hearts; the Sacrament of Reconciliation. While many Catholics, myself included, have drifted away from this Sacrament as we moved into our adult lives, we must recognize that Advent provides a wonderfully appropriate opportunity for us to make confession and return to a state of grace.

Beginning our Advent adventure with a blank slate will help us truly experience the presents that await us after the wax from that fourth purple candle of the Advent wreath begins to melt. No, not those presents that come in wrapped boxes under the tree. Rather, those gifts that come when we realize that a savior has come to this world to carry the cross of our shame. The gift of joy we experience by serving and loving one another the ways we want to be loved and the gift of relief when we realize that we can surrender our burdens to He who so loved the world that He offered unto us His only Son.

Every Breath you Take

I was very close with my maternal grandmother. My twin brother suffers from asthma and was in and out of the hospital when we were little. He absorbed much of my mother’s attention and, as a result, my grandmother would drive west to Plantation, FL from her condo on Pompano Beach to help take care of my older siblings and me.

Grandma and I had a very special bond that was broken in May of 1992 when she succumbed to cancer. Her timing really was awful; it was right before Mother’s Day, my twin and I were just about to graduate from high school, my sister was about to be married, and my older brother was about to open his first wine store. It was hard to believe that she would not be there to witness these events and the parties that went along with them; she always loved a good party.

Is that entirely true though? Would she really not be there?

I have a vivid memory of my grandmother’s wake, not of the scores of people who came to pay their respects, but of the scent of the flowers that surrounded her casket at the Gallagher funeral home. I will never forget that smell.

I remember leaving the funeral home after all of my siblings; I had borrowed my sister’s car for the night as she drove with her fiancée. I wanted to be the last person to leave. As I left the funeral home, my sense of olfaction was cleansed by the warm spring air as I walked through the parking lot and got into the car. I turned the car on and was greeted by the Police’s Every Breath You Take:

Every breath you take and every move you make

Every bond you break

Every step you take, I'll be watching you

Every single day and every word you say

I’ll be watching you

I inexplicably smelled the flowers from the funeral home as I heard Sting’s lyrics. I know this song is supposed to be from the point of view of a stalker, but for that brief moment in time it was being sung to me from the point of view of my grandmother. I truly believe it was her final gift to me; a way of telling me that even though she is gone, I will be okay. She will still continue to watch over me.

What a comforting thought, that those who have left this world to join the next will still continue to watch over us as guardian angels of sorts. Every now and then, when I am facing a difficult decision or a trial in my life, I sometimes smell those flowers as if my grandmother were right next to me trying to help me find a solution to whatever is troubling me.

As Christians, we believe that Jesus is still with us and by turning towards Him and putting our faith and trust in Him, our burdens will ease. I truly believe that the experience I had the night of my grandmother’s wake is a gift. It is a reminder of the reality that through Christ, all things are possible and all will be taken care of.

The Sin of Denying a Vocation

I had a Religion teacher in high school, Mr. Roper, who impressed upon us the nature of sin. Up to that point in our lives, we believed that various acts, in and of themselves, were simply sinful. For example, treating your mother and father poorly, treating others unfairly, lying about something, etc.

Mr. Roper though, told us why these sins were, well, sinful. He explained that all sins can be traced back to the act of alienating oneself from others. Further, by doing so, we actually alienate ourselves from God as it is God’s will that we love one another. The actions described above, and many others, stem from acts of alienation. Therefore, Mr. Roper argued, that there is only one sin in this world and that is the sin of alienation (not to be confused by the 1988 film Alien Nation starring James Caan who was also in The Godfather. From the Godfather to Alien Nation; I could argue Caan's accepting the lead role in this horrible movie was a sin in and of itself but I digress).

I took on this simplistic worldview for a while and then, while considering the life of one of my closest friends, I started to challenge my beliefs in this area. My friend Robert (not his real name) came from a very strict family. He was extremely bright making the honor roll during all four years attending a very prestigious Catholic prep school.

He was talented at both mathematics and writing. He could have been an accountant or writer, or perhaps a writer of accounting standards (as exciting as that sounds). However, when Robert left home to attend a very prestigious private University, the sudden influx of freedom was too much to handle. His grades slipped. He was given 4 warnings and was later asked to leave the school. He bounced around a few more colleges after that, but he never graduated. Now, this former honor roll student runs around doing odd jobs well below his ability. He often does not go to bed until 4 am and treats his personal relationships poorly.

I know that Robert’s home life was abysmal. While his parents supported him financially, the emotional support critical to fueling a person’s self esteem was not present. However, at what point to we wake up and recognize the need to overcome such an obstacle? At what point do we accept responsibility for the poor choices that we consciously make even when we know better? At what point do we choose not to have our present actions dictated by our past?

My friend’s experience and choices made me realize that alienation is not the only sin in the world. The conscious decision to deny one’s vocation is also a sin. It is a sin of wasted potential.

When I was younger, the term vocation meant a call to religious life; an arguably very narrow definition. Now I come to understand that we are all called to something; we all have abilities and gifts given to us by God and tasked to use these abilities to spread the Gospel’s messages of love, forgiveness and salvation. Its not just through preaching, but through raising a family in the faith, treating others with kindness, running a business grounded in moral principles, keeping a blog, etc.

Choosing not to develop our gifts and therefore not to use our abilities in the service of others is just as much a sin as bearing false witness against one’s neighbor. If we consciously choose not to cultivate these talents we are, in a sense, saying no to God.

As I write these words, I find myself at the crossroads where these two sins (alienation and denying vocations) interconnect. I can choose to alienate my friend and not encourage him to take a different path or I can pick up the phone and have a heart to heart conversation with him. There is much more to be said about this theme, and more words I can write; however, I have a phone call to make.