Gifted for a Reason
All that we have is a gift from Above, but ever thought what God intended when He gave it to you?
By the time I was born as the youngest of three boys, my family was Christian but non-practicing. My parents weren’t Catholic to start with, so on my first day as a freshman at Providence Catholic High School, I remember being scared to death because I had never met a priest or a religious sister. I did not know the first thing about the Catholic Mass but was told to attend all Masses at school. I had to take theology courses, too, but since my intention of going there was their baseball program, I didn’t mind.
Searching for Something…
As a 14-year-old, one of my biggest fears was being embarrassed in front of my peers–that I’d be asked the most basic question of the faith and be unable to answer. But Sister Margaret, who taught us freshman theology, never put me on the spot. One day after class, she waited at the doorway for me. I had every intention of walking right by, but she stopped me, looked into my eyes, and said: “Burke, you’re searching for something.” I tried to walk away, but again she stopped me and said: “Read this.” She gave me my first Bible.
That evening, after my baseball practice, homework, and dinner, I went to my room, shut the doors, and started reading the gospel of Matthew from the Bible. It really intrigued me in such a way that this became a habit. Gradually, theology became one of my favorite classes.
During the all-school Masses, I’d watch my friends go for Communion and be curious about their reverence for this piece of bread they were receiving. On one of our junior retreats, during the final day of Mass, I had a profound encounter with the Eucharist that made me realize the power of God within me.
The priest gathered us around the altar for the Consecration and Communion; I’d never been that close to the altar. During Communion, the priest came to each of us with the Eucharist; I didn’t know what to do. As he approached me and said: “The body of Christ,” my intention was to tell him that I’m not Catholic. But as I opened my mouth, he placed the Consecrated Host on my tongue. I felt at that moment the power of God going through my entire body. Though I now know that for an unbaptized person–for that matter, even a baptized person who doesn’t believe in the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist–it isn’t right to receive the Eucharist, the circumstances were such that I received my first Communion by accident! This incident changed my life in profound ways; I started off by studying more about the faith, and by the time I moved to Mississippi, I had become a Catholic who could receive Christ for real every day.
The Ebb and Flow
Baseball was going well, and the team was often ranked nationally. During my senior year, when I got into the zone, I hit a grand slam which got us to the College World Series. I was named the Most Valuable Player of that tournament. But a couple of errors in the following three games scrapped it all. During the World Series Major League Draft, eight of my teammates were drafted, but my phone remained silent.
I was crushed. I came home not knowing what to do. A couple of weeks later, my former high school baseball coach who had become a coach for the Chicago White Sox called and told me about the tryout to play professional baseball. That went well for me, as the next day, I signed a contract with the White Sox. But it didn’t go as I had planned. At the end of the season, they said: “Burke, you do everything well and nothing great, we’re looking for greatness.” They didn’t renew my contract. I kept on trying for a while, but finally, I had to face the fact that it was over. I was 23 years old with just a degree in Math.
Someone mentioned that there was a possible career in actuarial science, so I got a job and made a lot of money. But the stress was so low that it got boring, so I quit my job. After completing my Master’s from Ohio University, I landed a job with the Kane County Cougars, a minor league baseball team. After four years, I had two job offers on the table–two dream jobs in baseball at the same time!
I had just started dating Stephanie, who I’d met at the local church. One night, we were out for dinner and as we were leaving the restaurant, she said: “Let’s stop by the Church for Eucharistic Adoration.” Although I had been Catholic for at least eight or nine years, I had never heard of Eucharistic Adoration. She explained that we would be spending an hour of quiet prayer before the Blessed Sacrament. There, I realized that in silence, we encounter God.
We started to go every Tuesday night for an hour of Adoration, and I went from being afraid of silence to craving for silence. It became the most peaceful hour of my week. And in my heart, priesthood kept rising to the surface. It was like God was asking me to be a priest; a gentle invitation over and over. My family members, friends, and even complete strangers started coming to me saying they thought I would make a good priest. I felt that the Holy Spirit was working both internally and externally. So, I talked to Stephanie, and she told me that if that was my call, I had to follow it.
I had every intention of going to the seminary for a year and then returning to Stephanie. But as I walked through the doors of the seminary, I felt this peace that never went away.
It was during May of ‘98, the end of my first year of seminary, when I received a call from my dad asking to go home immediately because my mom was diagnosed with lung cancer, which had spread to the brain and liver. I dropped everything and went home. It was stage four. Though we kept hoping, two months later, she collapsed into my arms while watching television. It was horrific.
As I looked out the window and saw my mom’s car in the driveway, I imagined my mother coming face-to-face with God. God was not asking her about the kind of car she drove or how much money she made, but instead, something more fundamental, like: “Did you love the Lord your God with your whole heart, mind, and soul, and love your neighbor as yourself?” My mother, even though she wasn’t a churchgoer, had taught us about God’s love.
Better than Ever
I went through a crisis of faith. I even wondered if there was life after death. I was angry with God for taking away the most important person in my life, but as it turned out, God saw me through that.
I stayed and was ordained a priest. I thank God that I never made it to the major leagues because the joy and peace that I’ve experienced as a priest are far beyond anything that I had ever experienced on the baseball field.
I have not only been the Catholic chaplain for the Chicago Cubs, but I have also established Catholic sports camps, which are now expanding. It’s just one way God allowed me to assimilate what I love in sports and bring it into my ministry.
God gives us gifts for a reason, and he wishes for us to use those gifts for His glory, in ways that we never imagined.
Father Burke Masters serves at St. Isaac Jogues Parish in Hinsdale, Illinois. He is the author of the book A Grand Slam for God: A Journey from Baseball Star to Catholic Priest.
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Discover how a simple snowflake can inspire you. As I drove to the Church, the snow that was supposed to turn to rain continued to fall. Individual flakes hit my windshield, quickly revealing their uniqueness before melting away. By the time I exited the Church after Mass, the snow lightly blanketed the ground. It was beautiful! Dressed in white, the barren farmland and the trees that had shed their colorful leaves no longer looked so desolate and dead. Despite the cold, the snow spread a sense of hope through the air. Of course, my children were hoping the snow would continue so that they would not have to go to school. In my part of the world, snow does bring school-age children such hope and joy. But the feeling I had that day walking out of the church was different. Standing amid the falling flakes, a verse from Psalm 51 came to mind: “Wash me, and I will be whiter than snow.” Therein lies the hope I felt – the knowledge that God loves me despite my weaknesses and sins. I need only to ask for His forgiveness and supernatural help to overcome them. He wants to cover me with His love and mercy like the snow falling gently on the earth. Thriving in Grace I took solace in the gradual covering. Our Lord is patient with us. He does not dump graces on us but allows us time for transformation. He gently leads us on the path of conversion. As I gingerly walked across the parking lot, I appreciated the baby steps we take on our journey that leads us to become the saints God is calling us to be. He delights in even our smallest progress. By afternoon, that which was a field of overturned dirt was now a woolen blanket. How amazing that those little flakes gathered together make such a difference! Such is the transformative power of grace! At every Mass when we receive Holy Communion, our souls are washed clean in the Blood of the Lamb. With each sacramental confession, we are reconciled to God and to one another. The ‘dirt’ from sin that stains our souls is washed away by the graces bestowed in these two powerful yet gentle Sacraments. Then, God sends us out into the world. Each of us, as unique as a snowflake, has our own gifts and talents. We share the Gospel in our little part of the world. Perhaps we feel like we don’t do enough, or aren’t effective enough. We feel as tiny as that snowflake. But consider how God needs each snowflake to do its little part to cover the land. Together, we can change the world! I do not have to do it all by myself. Neither do you. We just need to land where God places us and be the unique person He created us to be, spread God’s love, and make known all the good He does for us. The world will be a brighter place if we do.
How does any parent survive the death of a child? I cannot begin to answer this question as a professional counselor but only as a mother who has lived through the worst nightmare of her life. We were blessed with two boys who were the joy of our lives. The night of the accident, my husband Cliff and I, along with our 15-year-old son Chris, spent an indescribable, terrifying night waiting, hoping, and praying that David, our 17-year-old, would somehow return home safely. The accident occurred around 10:30 pm, but the highway patrol never discovered it until 7 am the next day. When we received the horrible news, our scant flicker of hope crumbled helplessly within our hearts. I cried from the depths of my being. I was emotionally numb. Looking back after all these years, I see how God, in His compassion and love, supplied my body and spirit with an emotional safeguard that temporarily blocked out the enormous shock of this painful, unbearable reality. Thinking of that night reminds me of the touching words of the poem entitled Footprints in the Sand, in which our loving God said: “During your times of trial and suffering when you see only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you.” God continued to carry our grief-stricken family through the painful funeral, the processing of life insurance claims, and the closing out of David's checking account. Each time I had to do these necessary things, I asked Jesus to give me strength. Tackling Grief After three weeks, I went back to work. I felt as though I was leading a double life during the months that followed. I would drag myself to work each day, drained and consumed with a deep sadness. For months, I felt as though I was an actress playing a part in a real-life drama. I tried to function normally at work, attempting to perform my required duties. At home, behind closed doors, I could then be true to my feelings and sob from the deepest part of a mother's grieving heart. Crying often became my only cleansing release. In this age of fast food, high-speed Internet, and instantly replaceable everything, society has a hard time accepting the fact that deep grief takes time to heal. If a person has a physical injury, he or she is pampered and taken care of until the wound has been completely healed. But it seems if a person has an emotional injury, he or she is expected, in a short while, to show up for work and be as efficient as ever. I finally had to accept the fact that society as a whole didn't consider emotional wounds to take time to heal. I had shared one part of that journey earlier in an article titled Impossible Made Possible*. Healing is not a single-moment-magic. I continued into the next year, processing through my pain and loss. With special dates like Thanksgiving, Christmas, David's birthday, and what would have been his high school graduation, I regressed into a deep sadness, filled with many days of crying. The professionals in the field of grieving state: “The healing process is more like a lightning bolt, full of ups and downs, progressions and regressions, dramatic leaps and depressing backslides.” When my sorrow overwhelmed me, God always sent caring neighbors, understanding friends, and loved ones. They each listened, loved me, and helped me to go on. Into the second year of processing my grief, I became aware of my deep hidden guilt. My guilt stemmed from an acute sense of regret about not being able to say all the many things hidden deep in my heart to my son David while he was alive. I knew, as a mother, I had made many mistakes while raising my son. I felt it was too late to share those precious thoughts and feelings with him. I suffered over this and asked God to forgive me. I felt God had forgiven me, but I couldn't forgive myself. I decided to write my son a letter in which I was able to express my deepest thoughts and feelings to him. After I finished the letter, I felt a sense of cleansing and release. David's physical life is over, but his soul is with Jesus, surrounded by unconditional love. This is indeed the promise that Jesus holds out to each of us. “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in Me, even though they die, will live.” (John 11: 25) I have a renewed sense of hope because I know that I will see my child again at the Heavenly Banquet being prepared by our Father in Heaven. Through experiencing deep anguish and sorrow, I have emerged as a more compassionate person. As I release my son in love, I have received the healing power of God's grace. As my wounds have healed, so do I become an instrument of God's grace in reaching out to others who are grieving… *You can read the article Impossible Made Possible here: shalomtidings.org/impossible-made-possible
The Gospel for Easter Sunday is from Saint John’s account of Easter morning (John 20:1–9). We are told that Mary Magdalene arrives at the tomb very early in the morning while it is still dark. She has come to anoint the body of the Lord, which had been buried in haste because of the onset of the Passover. She spies the great stone rolled back and assumes that the body has been stolen. So she runs immediately to Simon Peter and the other disciples: “They have taken the Lord from the tomb, and we don’t know where they put him.” She doesn’t yet believe in the Resurrection, for she is operating still within a conventional framework. So the two disciples, Peter and John, make a mad dash toward the tomb, the younger John outpacing the older Peter. What an odd detail, by the way—so peculiar in fact, that it led the novelist Graham Greene to accept the historicity of the account. Upon coming to the open tomb, John looks in and sees ‘the burial cloths.’ Then Peter arrives and spies the same clothes, as well as the cloth that had covered his head ‘rolled up in a separate place.’ Have you ever wondered why there is such an emphasis on the burial cloths? The most obvious reason is that their presence is peculiar. If the body had been stolen, why would the thieves have bothered taking the elaborately wound cloths off, and why in the world would they have taken the time and effort to fold the head cloth up so carefully? But might they also be mentioned so prominently because they were treasured by the early Church? And might at least the principal cloth exist to this day? I’m speaking, of course, of the famous Shroud of Turin, which for centuries has been reverenced as a relic of the Crucifixion. I had a chance to see the shroud in 2010, when I was a visiting scholar in Rome and the cloth was exposed briefly for public display. It is remarkably long—long enough indeed to have covered a body front and back. On it can be seen, plainly enough, rust-colored markings that suggest the frontal and dorsal sides of a man about thirty years of age. Marks of violence can be seen on him, wounds from whipping and, quite clearly, from crucifixion—great gashes in the wrists and feet, as well as a gaping wound in the side of the torso. However, the most remarkable feature of the shroud was revealed only in 1898, when it was photographed for the first time. When the photographer, a man named Secondo Pia, developed the film, he noticed that the negative of the photo revealed an exquisitely detailed depiction of the man of the shroud, anatomically exact to a degree that no artist could have produced. So, what we see of the shroud, he concluded, is itself a kind of photographic negative. And when scientists pored over the detailed version, what they saw took their breath away. Not only was the anatomy perfectly correct, but the details of the wounds were telling, corresponding to the very sort of scourges that ancient Romans used. The ‘crown’ of thorns was more of a cap, and the wound in the side gave evidence of both blood and pericardial fluid: the blood and water that Saint John spoke of. Furthermore, traces of coins, bearing the inscription of Pontius Pilate, could be seen covering the eyelids. Also, seeds and pollen from the Middle East were found within the strands of the fabric. How was the image formed? Here, the scientists were truly stumped, for absolutely no trace of paint or pigment could be found, and the marks did not work their way down into the fabric but colored only the very surface of the shroud. The closest they could come to naming it accurately was to refer to it as a ‘scorch,’ something caused by an intense burst of radiation—which would furthermore explain the photographic negative quality of the image. What in nature would produce such a phenomenon? Nothing that we know. Does it indicate the fact of the Resurrection, when in a great burst of light and energy, the body of Jesus was brought back to life? The extraordinary and mysterious Shroud of Turin speaks to us a great Easter truth—namely, that at the heart of Christianity stands, not a myth or a legend or a symbol, but a fact, the bodily Resurrection of Jesus from the dead. It was this historical truth that sent the first Christians careering around the world to announce the ‘Gospel,’ which means ‘good news.’ They were not trading in philosophical abstractions or spiritual musings; rather, they were grabbing their interlocutors by the shoulders and telling them that something had happened. When Saint John entered the tomb and saw the burial cloths, he ‘saw and believed.’ There was something about those wrappings that convinced him. I wonder whether the same thing is true today in our hyper-skeptical age. We, too, can see the cloth in which Jesus’ body was wrapped, and we understand it far more thoroughly than Saint John ever could have. Does it cause us to ‘see and believe?’ ARTICLE originally published at wordonfire.org. Reprinted with permission.
In a remote village, there lived a family with identical twin brothers. They were so similar that even their parents could not tell them apart. The older of the twin brothers grew up in deep faith and led a good life, while the younger brother was led astray. The younger son's plight left the parents so heartbroken. As their life drew to a close, all they wished for was the return of their younger son. The elder son promised to do everything to convert his younger brother. One day, a curfew was declared in their village. The younger son, a rebel, mocked the officials and even lashed out at them. This situation escalated and resulted in the death of a few soldiers. The whole village, in agitation, went out in search of him. Early the next morning, before sunrise, the younger brother somehow made his way to their backyard, where his older brother was waiting, and fell at his feet. After listening to all that had happened, the older brother realized that his younger brother was truly repentant from his heart. Not wasting any time, he took his younger brother for a bath and provided him with clean clothes to wear. By the time he came out, the older brother was already wearing his blood-stained clothes. By then, the mob was banging on their door. The elder brother rushed to the banging door; people beat him and got him arrested. He was sentenced to death. The grief-stricken younger brother visited his older brother in prison and burst into tears, wanting to confess the truth. The older brother put his arms through the bars and held him close, making him promise: “This truth should be known only to us, our long-departed parents, and to God alone. All that I have earned is yours. My good reputation, wealth, status...I have taken all that is yours, but you have this beautiful life to live. Take care to live it out fully well.” We do not know whether this story is true or fiction. But one thing is for sure—2000 years ago, an older brother gave up His whole life for us younger brothers and sisters at the Cross. He died in exchange for our sinful lives so that we may have new life in Him.
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