Sunday, June 20
Luke 9:18-24
In the Gospel this week, Jesus asks his closest friends “Who do you say I am?” Everyone’s identity is important, even sacred. It might be helpful to ponder this question in prayer.
Because today is Father’s Day, I wish to share with you one of the most personal reflections I have ever done regarding my own father . . . who died when he was only 54 years old, but who remains to this day the most important man in my life.
Happy Father’s Day!
When I was a child my father was my god.
He knew all the answers to my questions.
He could solve problems and fix toys.
He was strong and could hold me up over his head with one hand.
He tickled well too and knew when to stop.
When I was a child my father was my god.
When I was a growing boy my father was my god.
He taught me how to ride a bike,
Pitch a baseball and swing my bat evenly.
He asked me to help him around the house
And even let me use his tools.
He even sneaked me up some food once when I was sent to bed without supper.
When I was a growing boy my father was my god.
When I was twelve my father was my god.
He taught me how to pitch horseshoes and play cribbage . . .
And he never let me win on purpose.
We climbed a mountain together and mowed the lawn.
We helped neighbors and old uncle Babe with his home fixing chores.
He watched me play hockey and baseball
And cheered my mediocre abilities.
When I was twelve my father was my god.
When I was a teenager my father was my god.
I discovered his faults for he wore them on his outer surface,
Like everything else he ever wore.
He was short on temper,
Loud on voice
And long on sermons.
We went to church as naturally as we visited grandparents and relatives.
More than once we waited in line together for confession.
Once I overheard him brag about me with pride.
When I was a teenager my father was my god.
When I was a young man, my father was still my god.
I saw him hide his tender feelings
When he was moved with joy.
His efforts to hide his tears
Were more visible to me than his tears would have been.
He loved mom gently and could not hide from us
How pleasing and beautiful he thought she was.
The greatest gift he ever gave us
Was the way he loved her . . . and showed it.
When I was a young man, my father was still my god.
When I was an adult my father was still my god.
There was never a doubt that he loved us all.
Cut and dry…black and white.
You love or you don’t love.
There was no wishy-washy fidgeting with him on anything.
When I was an adult my father was still my god.
He died…45 years ago.
Now that I’m a father myself, my father is no longer my god.
But how easy it’s been to believe that God is my Father.
Kenn Rancourt
