Letters to a Loving God

In his new prayer journal "Letters to a Loving God," sociologist and best-selling author Fr. Andrew Greeley addresses brief daily reflections to God. Excerpted with permission of Sheed & Ward.

November 20, 1999; 9:25 a.m.; Chicago
My Love,
Among the images that filled my memory when I was reading the book about Chicago is the picture of my mother reaching into her purse for money and trembling when she saw how little was left. This happened often and, even from the distance of two-thirds of a century, the image still breaks my heart. If only I could have done something about it. If only in later years I could have made up for it! I know she is with You now and filled with the joy and peace we all desire, but I am still close to tears over what she suffered.

So many others did too, but they weren't my mother. Still, I feel for them also.

I put up my tree last night and the Christmas decorations and have Christmas music on the stereo. When I think of the money I have spent on Christmas presents (even holding inflation constant), I realize what that kind of money would have meant to my mother. And my tears well up again. I give money away, I shouldn't feel guilty. Only sad.

Help me this Christmas, despite my wanderings in early December.

I love You.

March 15, 2000; 8:25 a.m.; Tucson
My Love,
In the poem this morning, the author (male) tells about washing wine glasses in the sink and describes it as "the gray sacrament of the mundane." What a lovely line. There are so many sacraments of the mundane all around, by no means all of them gray. I look out the window this morning and see hummingbirds against the blue sky cavorting around an octillo tree, striving to come alive after last week's inadequate rain. You lurk there and in the wine glasses and in every other marvel of creation, if only I would take the time to see them and be open to them. In the rushed days ahead I so much want to be open to You.

Help me to Love.

March 27, 200; 8:10 a.m.; Tucson
My Love,
A lot of activity around my rosemary bush this morning. Gamble quail back at last, a bevy of red-crested birds, chipmunks, and a busy little lizard. It is spring now, isn't it! I guess I didn't notice the change last week, I was so busy running around. The prickly pears have fruit again. No sign of the saguaro blossoms, however.

All in all, quite a show. Life flows again in the desert. Odd life, but surviving life, a life that reflects your persistence and determination in sustaining life. No proof of anything, just a sign--but signs are all that believers need.

I love You.

July 17, 2000; 8:33 a.m.; Grand Beach
My Love,
I want to reflect on simplicity, a characteristic that does not mark my life in any respect. Quite the contrary; both personally and professionally I am anything but simple. I am a complex, intricate character with many layers of depth wrapped around my inner self, partly at least by design, partly perhaps because I lack most communal and institutional ties. Maybe that latter fact is, in its own way, a form of simplicity. Or maybe it's just that I don't fit.

My lifestyle is not simple. Three homes, each better than the one home most people have. Expensive electronic equipment. Flying around the country and the world. Money spent in improving them all-although each is worth far more now that I have put so much into them.

Yet, am I "attached" to them? Would I find it hard to give up Grand Beach? Will I find it hard when life and death demand that I do? I think, but I'm not sure, that I may weep a little for it, but that I would let go. I hope so.

I've made all the arguments for it before. A place to relax, to work in some kind of peace. I've never been able to solve that problem. Maybe I'm asking the question in the wrong way. I don't know.

Do I need this house on the lake? Perhaps a better question is whether I would have survived without it. I tend to doubt it.

I must reflect more on this simplicity business.

I love You.

September 8, 2000; 8:05 a.m.; Grand Beach
My Love,
Little sleep last night after a horrendous day. Phones, phones, phones!

Someone asked me the other night what I would be if I had not become a priest. Good question! I was so single-minded in my determination to become priest that I didn't think of anything else. Odd, wasn't it? Moreover, if I had left the priesthood--and, as You know, the idea never occurred to me--I would have had a couple of occupations that would have lost most of their attraction if I were not a priest.

Is this single-mindedness a good thing? I guess I really don't know for sure. It can't be said that I ever seriously considered marriage either. I was infatuated a couple of times but from a great distance and never seriously.

One track mind. Healthy? I don't know. That's what I am, however. Dedicated--or maybe only stubborn.

No regrets surely, none at all. As life winds down, I'm as certain as ever. I would, as the man said in the book, "do it all again!"

Would I have been better off-and maybe a better priest-if I had gone through some other considerations? Maybe. Who knows? I am what I am.

And I love You.

November 9, 2000; 8:35 a.m.; Chicago
My Love,
Presidential election is an absolute mess. Nineteen thousand ballots, most of them for Gore, disqualified in Florida. Long litigation and a tarnished presidency are inevitable. Country in trouble. Brought it on ourselves.

Wonderful grace at the hospital yesterday. Those little creatures are so wonderful. Young mother gently caressing her tiny son's back-so loving, so tender, so much like You. Or so I thought. And so it will be said in my novel.

I blessed both of them, avoiding tears with difficulty.

In such circumstances, how can anyone doubt You? They could say, of course, that You let those small ones be born early and cause suffering and tragedy for their families. But You will dry their eyes, too, as You dry everyone else's. A scene for poets and storytellers.

I love You.

(And bless the United States!)

December 14, 2000; 8:55 a.m.; Chicago
My Love,
I am a little ashamed of myself this morning. I was on display at dinner last night, and I slipped into the habit of being the oracle, the wise man, the expert for the younger clergy there, good men and true. I knew I was doing it after awhile, but it was too late to wiggle out of it. I'm sorry. I feel like a bit of a fraud.

The only thing worse than not being taken seriously is to be taken seriously! I'll try not to do it again.

I love You.

January 15, 2001; 7:40 a.m.; Tucson
My Love,
I worry about little girls. They seem to be the happiest people on earth. Yet, their happiness is so often destroyed as they grow up. Through much of human history, they have been the victims of men's lust and cruelty. Even now, their happiness and their desire for love is so often blighted by stupid, gross, and insensitive men. It's not fair. Whenever I see a cute little kid bouncing along after her mother in the supermarket, I want to grieve because I know how much she is likely to have to suffer.

You must do something about it. I realize that You are, and I regret that the Church is so tardy in its concerns. We are run by the same kind of men that mess up the lives of women they marry.

I must say something about this sometime soon.

I love You.

March 5, 2001; 9:05 a.m.; Tucson
My Love,
I read half of Bernard Haring's little memoir last night. It brought back all the excitement at the time of the [Second Vatican] council, and made the present situation in the Church look even worse than I had appreciated. We are still into the posture of trying to control the lives of the faithful, those who, as the Catechism says, are under "law and authority." The people on top don't get it. There is no law or authority anymore, not in their sense. Auhtority is nothing more than a license to practice charm and persuasion. I wonder how many priests realize that. Perhaps not too many. You can give orders until you're blue in the face (or crimson), and it won't do any good. We have lost it, for weal or woe. Blind obedience is dead. It will not rise. Nor, in my judgment, should it.

We are in an era of great tension and strain. It will go on for a long time. Church leadership is making it more difficult.

I hope my stories make the transition. I must keep that in mind as I work on my next story. A cardinal's visit to the White House while [fictional bishop] Blackie is there. Fun, but the point must be made.

Also, the point that Mike Leach makes on the tape I listened to yesterday: people won't leave the Church.

I love You.

May 9, 2001; 7:30 a.m.; Grand Beach
My Love,
I'm troubled this morning. You know why, and I don't want to mention it explicitly. I'm caught up in conflicting emotions and have a hard time straightening out my reactions. Help me to know what to do. In these matters, I generally follow my instincts; what else is there to follow?

I watched M. Vincent last night. A great film and a great critique of priesthood, my priesthood, which is all I should be concerned about. Again, I've followed my instincts as to what your Holy Spirit wants me to do, but I am painfully aware of the risks of self-deception.

Why do I write my novels? First of all, I have always said-and I believe it-that I write to retell stories of grace, of your forgiving love. Secondly, because I enjoy writing. How does lifestyle and fame figure in? I don't do it for the money, though the money is useful. However, my lifestyle has changed only marginally.

Having thus examined my conscience, I am still uneasy, which arguably is a good way for me to be.

I love You.