RIP: Fr. Raphael Iannone, OFM Cap.

Homily for the funeral Mass of +Fr. Raphael Iannone, OFM Cap.

This is a humbling task. Certainly there are many of you, friars and otherwise, who knew Fr. Raphael better than I did. I mostly knew him as our postulant director at St. Michael’s, and as I reflected on what to say today, three memories of Fr. Raphael came to mind from that time.

First, let me tell you how I hit it off with Fr. Raphael at the beginning of the postulant year. Before this, when we were candidates, we had many of our discernment weekends at the old St. Francis friary in Garrison. Taking it all in on those stays, I noticed, among many other things, the images of the Capuchin saints in the hallways of the place. Often they had a crucifix. That’s easy, I said to myself, I have a crucifix. But they also often had, on a desk or somewhere around, a skull as a memento mori. That I didn’t have. So before entering the postulancy program, I looked in a science teacher supply catalog and ordered myself a realistic-looking plastic skull.

Then, when I was moving into St. Michael’s, Fr. Raphael saw the skull on my desk and asked me about it.

I replied, “I saw the skulls in the pictures of the Capuchin saints and I thought you needed one.” He looked at me, I looked at him, he looked at me, and then he just burst out laughing. I felt accepted right away. Fr. Raphael had the gift of making you feel that, accepted.

Here’s the second memory. Early on in the postulancy year my mother came to visit the friary. Now my family isn’t Catholic, so this whole friar thing that I’ve done with my life was a curious unknown to them. But this has never been a concern; the friars have always been friendly and hospitable, regular people. (This in itself taught me something about this group, about its generosity and openness.)

So my mother came down to St. Michael’s to see the place and have supper with us postulants and the friars. A few days later I called her to check in about it. How did she find the visit?

“Oh,” she said, “it was delightful. Everyone was so nice, they gave me a glass of wine, and both Fr. Bill (the other postulant director) and Fr. Raphael gave me a kiss. But I think Fr. Raphael meant it more.”

You can see it, right? Fr. Raphael just had that classic, Franciscan, earthy goodness.

My third memory is from closer to the end of the postulant year. I was walking by Raphael’s room, which was a sight in itself–the huge desk in the middle of the room, placed at a curious angle to the rest of the space, what he called his ‘rock collection’ over in a corner, and the World Wrestling Federation throw rug adorning the floor.

But that day there was an unusual sight: Fr. Raphael sitting behind the desk, looking uncharacteristically subdued and pensive. Was he ok? Should I ask? Maybe that’s not my place. He’s the director and I’m a postulant. He’s the guardian and I’m not even a friar yet. Maybe I should get one of the friars to see if he’s ok?

By God’s grace, the courage came, and I went in and asked Fr. Raphael if he was ok. For his part, he just opened up. He was upset because he had to tell one of the postulants to go home.

See, Fr. Raphael loved us, postulants in his charge, he really loved us. And it gave him great pain to have to tell one of us it was time to depart from the formation program.

As I’ve reflected from time to time over the years on this brief encounter between me and Fr. Raphael, I’ve come to realize that it was an important moment in my initial formation, in my learning about our Capuchin charism of evangelical fraternity, gospel brotherhood.

Because at that moment it was less a meeting between a guardian and a brother in the house, between a director and a postulant, and more just an encounter between two disciples of Jesus Christ, one who was bearing the cross of that day–that is to say the intersection of love and suffering in his own consecrated life–and this is also important, willing and vulnerable, like the Lord himself in the gospel we heard, to be seen in that intersection of agony and love–and another disciple given the grace to witness and give reverence to that embrace of the cross.

In this I learned that part of our charism, our mission as lesser brothers, is just that, to encounter, witness, and revere the intersections of love and suffering among ourselves and in the people and places we live in and serve, for this is to encounter and revere the Cross of Jesus Christ, the Cross which is the Sacrifice that saves the world.

Thank you, Fr. Raphael.

For the obituary, click here.

RIP: Fr. Stanley Marrow, SJ

(Original post from 2012)

Today there was news of the death of one of our favorite teachers, Fr. Stanley Marrow, SJ. A seemingly cantankerous but really very gracious old Iraqi, every student he ever had is full of his sayings.

The last time I saw Stanley, on a visit to the old Jesuit home, he showed me a manuscript that he had just completed. A commentary on 1 Corinthians, I think it was. He remarked how nobody would publish it. Not the conservative presses, he said, because his exegesis proved the non-existence of the sacrament of penance, and not the liberal ones, because he insisted on calling God 'Father.' In this, as in everything else, he was the consummate iconoclast. He was very insistent on the God the Father thing. When he thought our more progressively-styled school Masses were ashamed of it, he declined to attend, saying that he worshiped a different God. I remember once when he did come to a school Mass, he remarked that the music sounded like "something from a Moroccan whorehouse."

During the same visit that I mentioned above, Stanley told me that he was praying for death. But, he said, the answer to his prayers thus far had only been, "Please stay on the line; your business is important to us." 

Underneath all the humor, though, was a very serious scholar of the Scriptures, and that's something we younger folks sometimes forget. You don't just get to be an iconoclast. You have to work for the privilege, and work long and hard.

When I was a new priest, Stanley sent me one of the most beautiful and encouraging notes I have ever received:

Before all else, congratulations! One of my fellow-ordinands, a man of extreme emotional reserve, remarked after the ceremony, "Now I know what Rahner means when he speaks of the 'physical redundancy' of grace." I shall offer my Mass for you some day this week, and ask the "author of our calling" to make your priestly ministry the unfailing source of your peace and joy. God has blessed you with an abundance of gifts, and the great beneficiary of that abundance will be those he entrusts to your pastoral solicitude. May you find in your selfless service of them the infinite satisfaction of saying, "We are unworthy servants; we have only done what was our duty."

The quotes could go on and on. But I always respected how he responded when he was asked how he saw his work as a professor of Sacred Scripture: he said that it was his mission to minimize the damage his students were going to do to God's people.

Requiescat in pace.

2025 UPDATE: I missed this until now, but the manuscript mentioned above was published. In the foreword, Fr. Thomas Stegman, SJ (may he also rest in peace), alludes to the difficulties.

Paul for Today's Church: A Commentary on First Corinthians

How to go to Confession

What follows is an excerpt from the book, Happiness in Holiness: A little guide to holiness of life for members of the Third order of Saint Francis and for other devout souls, edited by Rev. Apollinaris Baumgartner, O.M. Cap.* (who was later the first bishop of the diocese of Agaña, Guam), published in 1930, which purports to be an adaptation of Conduite intérieure pour toutes les actions de la journée, by Very Rev. Joseph of Dreux, O.M. Cap,* first published in 1667.

The following is attributed to St. Bonaventure, though without citation.

"Confess with simplicity as if you were speaking to an angel who knew all your secrets. Do not draw the veil of excuse over your actions and do not seek to diminish the gravity of your faults. Specify your sins but do not give the history of them. Do not enter into superfluous details and do not tell the sins of others. Acknowledge briefly and directly the faults you remember to have have committed since your last confession: but do not make a long series of of general statements such as: 'I have not loved God sufficiently well, etc.' 'I have not fervor enough, etc. ...' You may accuse yourself of such faults to God in prayer. In a word, let your confession be sincere, humble, and brief."

The book goes on:

"Listen with humility and gratitude to the admonitions of your confessor, being careful not to interrupt him repeatedly by saying, 'Yes, Father.' When the confessor imposes a penance upon you excite yourself to humility at the thought that it is in order to condescend to your weakness that he places such a slight burden on you.

"When you receive absolution, place yourself in spirit at the foot of the Cross of Christ and recite more with your heart than your lips, the act of contrition. The Precious Blood of our Lord is poured forth on your soul because its merits are applied to you when the priest pronounces the words of absolution.

"Leave the confessional giving thanks to God, and imploring Him to confirm in heaven, in accordance with the promise of Jesus Christ, the absolution which the priest has pronounced over you. Renew your resolve to amend your life, and make one practical resolution to which you will attend particularly until your next confession. Carry it out promptly and respond to the grace you have just received. Say your penance with devotion and ask God to accept it favorably, even though it is so small and inadequate. Offer some little sacrifice or some penance which you will perform that day in order to make up for what is wanting in your sacramental penance.

"Leave the church with the firm purpose of never again committing what you have confessed, lest falling back into the same faults you may become unworthy of God's mercy: 'Behold thou art made whole: sin no more, lest some worse thing happen to thee.' (John v. 14.)"

*O.M. Cap. is an older postnominal for the Order of Friars Minor Capuchin, now O.F.M. Cap.

An Alternate Conversion Story

As I've mentioned various times on this tired old blog, the telling of my conversion story, whether to myself or others, has been a fascinating part of the journey. What I mean is that the story changes; it deepens and develops as time passes and I gain perspective, make new connections, and come to name broader economies of grace.

Recently I've been reflecting on an entirely different account of how I came to be a Christian and a Catholic. I'm fairly certain there's some truth to it.

A few years before my parents were married, my father converted to Judaism. The only religious affiliation I know of before that was with the Unitarians where he grew up. My mother says that the conversion was for a woman he had hoped to marry at the time, and I don't doubt that this is true, but it must have been something more than just that, for when I was a child my father had some Jewish practice about him, if not much. He lit the menorah at Hanukkah and said the prayers. I also remember him looking out the front window and saying prayers of some sort around Passover. But these seemed to be private things; he didn't invite anyone to participate and didn't seem interested in explaining or sharing what he was doing. As I grew up, these practices faded away.

Years later, after I had grown up and been baptized in the Catholic Church, my mother showed me a document my father had signed before a rabbinical tribunal at the time of his conversion. Among other things, the document indicated a promise. If God were to give my father a son, he would bring him into the covenant and raise him as a proper Jew.

A few years I was born and God had given my father that son.

I find it rather surprising that my father, who was a loyal person and someone who very much believed that people ought to do what they said they would, made little to no effort to be faithful to this promise in my regard, to which he had affixed his signature in the presence of those rabbis. Yes, he took me to Hebrew school a couple of times when I was little, but I think he didn't approve of the program himself, so that didn't last. There was no sabbath nor temple or synagogue, and certainly no bar mitzvah in my childhood.

On the contrary, growing up I had a very clear sense that I was a 'none.' Other people seemed to belong to this or that religion, but not me. I did find this curious as a child, and remember asking my parents about it. They said that they believed this was an adult decision someone should make for themselves when they grew up, though I don't think they expected this to actually happen.

All of this leads me to a new account of my own conversion. Our Heavenly Father, seeing my earthly father's negligence with regard to his religious promise concerning me, had pity on me and gave me the grace of an invitation to become that curious sort of eschatological Jew we call a Christian, such that I would be baptized into Jesus Christ and thus made an heir, in Him, of the covenants and a member of the Israel of God. (Galatians 6:16)

The Easter Itinerancy

(An old post updated)

Every year on this holy night I reflect on the grace of itinerancy that the Holy Spirit has given me; only twice in my whole baptism have I been in the same place for the Easter Vigil for more than two years in a row. When I think about all the places I've been for the Vigil, it puts me in awe of God and in a state of gratitude for my journey.

Here's my Easter Vigil history:

• 2025: Sacred Heart, Yonkers, NY (celebrant)
• 2024: Sacred Heart, Yonkers, NY (concelebrant; first time in charge of RCIA)
• 2023: Annunciation, Crestwood, Yonkers, NY (concelebrant)
• 2022: Our Lady of Sorrows, White Plains, NY
• 2021: Our Lady of Sorrows, White Plains, NY
  
  
• 2020: (COVID-19 pandemic, prayed what is provided in the Liturgy of the Hours for qui sollemni Vigilæ paschali non interfuerunt)
• 2019: Basilica of St. Teresa of Ávila, Rome
• 2018: Basilica of St. Camillo de Lellis, Rome
• 2017: Basilica of St. Camillo de Lellis, Rome (in the 25th year of my baptism)
• 2016: Capuchin General Curia, Rome (concelebrant)
  
  
  

RIP: Joe Zepf

The other day I happened to see that Joseph R. Zepf had passed away at the age of ninety-nine. He was the best spiritual director I have ever had. He was wise, practical, and funny.

For his obituary, click here. I had no idea he had led such a rich life.

I connected with Mr. Zepf at some point in the later 1990s, during the period in between my times in religious life. In those days the Archdiocese of New York had a very neat spiritual direction matchmaking service. You went somewhere in Rye, New York and met with this sister. She asked you about your prayer life, its forms and rhythms and so on. She asked about your favorite saints and what spiritual books had most influenced you. Then she said, well, give me some time to pray and reflect on this. In my case she called a couple of weeks later, said that she was confident she had discerned the right director for me, and sent me to Mr. Zepf.

I met with him at a parish office in Port Chester, New York. I don't remember what parish it was. It was a bit of a drive from West Haven, Connecticut where I was living at the time, but very much worth it.

Those soon became the days when I was thinking about applying to the Capuchins. I had left the novitiate of the OFM at Christmas 1995 and though I continued to desire Franciscan religious life, the difficulties and confusions surrounding that experience had left me skittish about trying again.

One time I asked Mr. Zepf directly, did he think I should join the Capuchins?

"How should I know? If it's going to help you get closer to Jesus, then do it."

I entered the Capuchin postulancy in the summer of 2000. From where we were in East New York, Brooklyn, I was about the same distance to Port Chester as I had been in West Haven. Unfortunately, however, my Capuchin formators wouldn't let me keep Mr. Zepf. In their estimation, he didn't have the right credentials in spiritual direction. This annoys me a little bit to this day.

Lux æterna luceat ei.

Greccio at 800

(This is a reflection I prepared for our quarterly magazine, The Capuchin Journey)

One of St. Francis of Assisi’s early biographers, Brother Thomas of Celano, relates how St. Francis, three years before his passing from this life, planned and celebrated Christmas in the little hill town of Greccio, located about halfway between Rome and Assisi. Three years before his death would make that the Christmas of 1223, of which we mark and celebrate the eighth centenary this year.

St. Francis enlisted the help of local friend, a certain nobleman named John, to help gather everything that was necessary for his idea of putting together a living nativity scene. St. Francis exclaimed,

“I wish to enact the memory of the babe who was born in Bethlehem: to see as much as possible with my own bodily eyes the discomfort of his infant needs, how he lay in a manger, and how, with an ox and an ass standing by, he rested on hay.” (1)

This desire, to know and to feel the love and suffering of Jesus, to follow in his footprint, was Francis’s particular devotion to Christ and his vocation in him. This desire was most perfectly realized in Francis’s experience of the stigmata, which, as St. Bonaventure writes, transformed the lover, Francis, into the image of the Beloved, Christ. (2)

When that Christmas Eve arrived, everything was prepared according to St. Francis’s expressed wish. The ox and the ass were led to the spot, the local faithful approached with lamps and torches for light, and the holy Mass of the vigil of Christmas was celebrated over a manger filled with hay. St. Francis himself sang the gospel of that holy night, and preached with remarkable devotion and sweetness on the King born poor, the ‘babe of Bethlehem’ whom Francis loved and desired with all his heart. It is said that contact with the hay from the manger subsequently restored many animals to good health, and even some people as well.

A curious and yet beautiful vision came to pass during the celebration. One of those present and at prayer, perhaps John of Greccio himself, (3) the friend who had helped St. Francis prepare for that night, saw a baby, apparently lifeless in the manger. St. Francis approached the vision, touched the baby, and awakened him from a deep sleep. St. Bonaventure writes that St. Francis even picked up the baby to embrace him. (4)

The early Franciscan writers note that this vision of St. Francis awakening the child suited the Christmas moment because of Francis’s mission to awaken the presence of Christ in the hearts of many, to stir up in their souls the love of God and devotion to the newborn Christ of Bethlehem. This invitation remains for us today—an invitation, as we approach Christmas ourselves and the eighth centenary of the celebration at Greccio—to allow the example and devotion of Francis of Assisi to stir up to new life the presence of Christ in our hearts.

As we set up our own nativity scenes in our homes, or as we pray before them in our churches, let us ask the Holy Spirit for some small share of St. Francis’s own desire to see with his own bodily eyes the hiddenness and poverty of the Lord born in Bethlehem, and even the ‘discomfort of his infant needs’, born away from home and in a place where there was no room for him or his parents at the inn. And may we also find the answer to this prayer in a renewed vision of the suffering Christ in the poor of our neighborhoods and our country as well as in the fear and terror of those in places, much in our thoughts these days, that are suffering the horror of war.

We need not fear our hearts breaking as we contemplate these sufferings of Christ in the peoples of this world, for if we allow our hearts to break open, we also have hope, and indeed a saving hope. For open hearts are ready to receive the Holy Spirit. And just as at Christmas the Holy Spirit conceives the Word of God as the human life of Jesus of Nazareth, anointing him as Lord and Savior of the world, so the same Spirit, in the same way, can conceive the presence of God in us, making of us Christians, anointed members of Christ after Christ’s own Heart, awakening in us the presence of Jesus.

Opening ourselves to the Holy Spirit in this way as we approach another Christmas, we can let the Spirit make of our own hearts a living nativity scene, a little ‘Greccio’. And if we fear that our hearts might not be fit for God because they can sometimes harbor darkness or even be a little cold at times, let us rejoice, for the good news of Bethlehem is that it is precisely in such places that God wills—indeed desires—to born among us. In this awareness of the littleness and the poverty of our inner self, where Christ wishes to be born and abide—in order to make us a dwelling place for God in the Spirit (Ephesians 2:22)—we can marvel with St. Francis at the humility and poverty of the God who empties himself into the poverty of our little hearts, so that by his poverty, you might become rich (2 Corinthians 8:9) in blessing and grace.

Then, having celebrated Christmas within, having prepared a little ‘Greccio’ in our hearts where God hides and makes himself little in order to glorify our littleness and poverty from the inside, let us let that love of God out, into the outside, where the ‘infant needs’ of Christ are heard in the cry of the poor and the cry of the earth. In this way, the Love of God, made incarnate for us at Christmas, may continue to take flesh in the gentleness and charity we reflect out toward a suffering world.

_____

1. Francis of Assisi: Early Documents. Vol. I: The Saint. Eds. Regis J. Armstrong, O.F.M. Cap., J. A. Wayne Hellman, O.F.M. Conv., and William J. Short, O.F.M. (New York: New City Press, 1999), 255. (Hereafter FA:ED.)

2. FA:ED, vol. II: The Founder, 710

3. FA:ED, vol. I: The Saint, 256, footnote c.

4. FA:ED, vol. II: The Founder, 610.