Father Michael
Keating, Associate Pastor (serving St.
John's 2002 through present)
|
St. John
the Baptist
A few words about our noble patron:
Jesus made an astonishing statement about his cousin John. "No man born
of woman," he said, "is greater than John the Baptist." This is not just
family praise; Jesus says nothing without meaning a great deal. Here we
see the eternal Word of God made flesh, the one who will one day judge
every man and woman, who sees into hearts and understands our very depths,
who knows motives and actions and God's purpose in the world, someone who
knows what he is talking about, making the solemn pronouncement that John
the Baptist is the greatest man who ever lived. Greater than Moses the
Lawgiver, greater than David the conquering King, greater than prophets
like Isaiah and Jeremiah and Miriam and Daniel, greater than others
outside the Chosen People, whether sages or warriors or quiet people
living in hidden heroism. Simply the greatest.
|
Surprising enough. But the next thing Jesus says is even more astonishing.
"And yet I tell you, the one who is least in the kingdom of heaven is greater
than he." What can he possibly mean? The least of the Christians, greater than
the greatest man who ever lived? This sounds either like crass triumphalism or
just plain silliness, a seeming flight from reality. We've all known Christians,
people of the Kingdom, who were not especially impressive. Like, to take an
example near at hand, me. I'm doing my best over here, but put me head to head
with someone like St. John, and, well, the less said the better. And yet Jesus'
words still stand.
As it happens, Jesus is talking here, not so much about his cousin John, but
rather about the extraordinary gift of the Holy Spirit. John, great though he
is, is still a man under the Old Covenant. The Holy Spirit worked among the
Chosen People, but in an external way. With the coming of Christ and the sending
of the Spirit at Pentecost, the Holy Spirit has taken up residence within our
hearts in a new way, so that we become the new Temple, the place where God
dwells. Nothing will ever be the same for the human race, and the least of those
who have become temples of the Holy Spirit are greater than the greatest of
those who have not received this gift, not because of their own excellence, but
because of the awesome power and beauty of what has been given them. It is the
luster of God himself that makes those in the Kingdom great.
St. John is the hinge between the two Covenants: born under the old,
preparing the way for the new. And he himself understood the extraordinary
change that was taking place in human history: "One is coming whose sandal strap
I am not worthy to untie." This untying of the sandal strap was the duty of the
slave; John is saying that he is not worthy even to be Christ's slave. This was
a metaphorical way of acknowledging the greatness of the gift Christ was
bringing to a fallen humanity. Once that gift had arrived, his business was
over. "He must increase, and I must decrease."
This is why Christianity has never meant just "being good." Lots of people in
all times and places have tried to make the world a better place, tried to be
just and fair and loving, tried to be "good people." Some of them have been very
impressive at it. Christianity has no monopoly on the business of doing good.
What makes Christ unique, what makes him the only hope for a darkened world, is
this gift he brings of new and regenerating life. "He holds the keys of hell and
death." He conquers both our guilt and our mortality. He implants in us with
baptism a new principle of life, his very Self, a gift that will spring forth
into eternal perfection if we let him have his way with us.
"Behold," says the Risen Christ, "I make all things new!"
A little about
myself:
I was born in the
lovely and ancient town of Wurzburg in southern Germany, where Dad was stationed
with the army. I remember nothing
about it since I was six months old when we left. I have been told that I still cry with a
slight German accent.
I grew up in Lakewood, Ohio, a
suburb of Cleveland. I am the
fourth of six children (three boys, three girls). We grew up under the shadow of St. Luke.
s Church in an Irish Catholic neighborhood. Three of my friends who lived on our
street were named Tom Murphy, so we named them Tommy Murphy East, Tommy Murphy
West, and Tommy Murphy Farwest to keep from getting confused. The Kelly. s had nine kids, the Fayens
had twelve, and the McFaddens had fifteen, all near neighbors. Instant gangs and ball teams. Mom just about murdered me once when I
asked her why we didn. t have a big family.
My Italian
grandparents (Mom. s parents), who were born and raised in the home country,
lived with us and brought an old world flavor to the home. We made our own wine every autumn, 200
gallons of it from the grape, and bubbling tomato sauce was a constant feature
of the kitchen. My Nonna is still
alive at 102, still living at home, still cooking and shopping with Mom. She flew to St. Paul for my
ordination. This is what olive oil
will do for you.
The Cleveland Indians
perennially stank. It broke a boy.
s heart, but taught me commitment.
I went to St. Ignatius
High, a Jesuit all-boys prep school.
We were regular state champs in football, which was good, but some of the
fifteen year-olds were over two-hundred pounds and shaving, which was bad, at
least for a prospective star of slight build. I developed a good jump shot
instead.
We were a Wolverine
family. Dad and Mom met at the
University of Michigan Medical School, and five of the six of us went to Ann
Arbor for college. Go Blue.
I started in Science,
but soon switched to History and English.
Then I did a Masters in Education.
While at the university, through the influence of a campus ministry
organization, I rediscovered the faith my parents had patiently and lovingly
brought me up in. It was the
opening of an adventure with Christ that swept me off my feet, and that has not
yet ended.
Just out of college I
joined an ecumenical brotherhood of laymen called the Servants of the Word, who
live the evangelical counsels of poverty, chastity and obedience, and who do
various kinds of Christian ministry.
I was with them for a number of years, doing campus ministry and
formation work within the brotherhood.
I first moved to the
Twin Cities in 1988, and lived a few years in Dinkytown. I subsequently went to Notre Dame for a
Doctorate in Modern European Intellectual History, which is to say, . How we got
where we are today.. Inner
conflict was intense, and I endured many difficult and searching moments as I
attempted the soul-harrowing task of integrating my love for the Wolverines with
my newfound allegiance to the Fighting Irish. By God. s grace I pulled through
stronger for the experience.
I entered the St. Paul
Seminary in 1998, and a year later was sent to study in Rome, where I lived for
three years completing my seminary education and getting a Masters in
Theology.
And now by God. s grace I am
at St. John the Baptist, with the conviction in my heart more firm than ever
that there is nothing in life that compares to the love of Christ, that he is
the secret and the source of our happiness, that his Gospel is both our highest
joy and our only hope, that we find ourselves only when we lose ourselves in
him.
Fr. Michael
Keating