Download The Eucharist Is Our Highway to Heaven

A musician of the Metuchen Diocese has partnered with the first millennial saint to create a hymn proclaiming their shared love of the Eucharist. Entitled “The Eucharist is our Highway to Heaven,” the hymn was composed by St. Augustine of Canterbury Parish’s William Berg using lyrics he adapted from the writings of Blessed Carlo Acutis.

The local celebration of the young saint’s canonization had been slated for Sept. 7, but learning the focus for the diocesan Back to School Mass would be on the life of the then-Blessed Carlo, Berg was inspired to finish the hymn a week early. Composing the hymn’s verses proved to be a challenge since the late teen had left few writings.

“I researched him on the internet,” Berg explained, “and called those in charge of the travelling panels display (known as the Eucharistic Miracles of the World exhibit). So many of his quotes came from prayer cards and his website and were translated from the Italian language.”

Gathering input from fellow musicians and others, he rehearsed the final version with the congregation before the Aug. 27 back-to-school Mass and was rewarded with the sound of the assembly’s enthusiastic participation. Berg explained, “If you understand what you are singing, the congregation will sing it better and participate more.”

Berg earned a bachelor’s degree in sacred music from Westminster Choir College of Rider University, Princeton; a master’s degree in Church music and organ from Northwestern University, Evanston, Ill., and a certificate from the Pontifical Institute of Sacred Liturgy, Sant’Anselmo, Rome. He is beginning his 20th year as music director and principal organist in St. Augustine of Canterbury Parish.

Berg reported that a number of teachers present at the Mass requested copies of the yet-to-be-published work, written for guitar and organ, and he would be pleased to comply. The hymn will next be sung by the St. Augustine Children’s Choir at the Sept. 7 diocesan Mass to mark the canonization of both Blessed Carlo and Blessed Pier Giorgio Frassati.

Berg’s praise for his late, saintly co-composer was fervent. “Blessed Carlo’s love for Jesus in the Eucharist was beyond amazing,” he declared.

Berg can be reached at musicdir@staugustinenj.org.

This article appears in The Catholic Spirit, Sept. issue, and was written by Christina Leslie, Contributing Editor.

Lately, I have been thinking a lot about home, what it means, what it is, and the power imbued in the experience that is home. The
poet T. S. Eliot wrote often of home, speaking of it as “the place from where we start.”

In his poem, East Coker, he writes, “In my beginning is my end. In succession, houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended, are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass. … Houses live and die: there is a time for building and a time for living and for generation.” And, over time, “the houses are all gone under the sea.”

Since Superstorm Sandy ravaged New Jersey shore towns in 2012, Eliot’s poem reminds me of the devastation in my Ortley Beach neighborhood. My neighbors’ houses swept off their foundations into the ocean, others thrust into the street, half of one house perched precariously on the bottom of another. When we were allowed back into the town, we wandered like nomads up and down the streets, stunned into silence. These were not just our houses gone. They were our homes.

Our Ortley home was not among those lifted from its foundation and washed into the ocean or ripped apart like a house of cards. But five feet of water inside caused us to lose all our possessions, many which held significant meaning.

Among them was an oil painting of a ship, sails unfurled, coming into harbor. A gift from my father, it represented the sacredness of home – a harbor where love brought refuge, respite and peace of mind. I grew up believing that’s what home should be. And it starts with a house.

So, it’s no surprise that among my passions is a love of old houses. An old, abandoned house is like a siren of Greek mythology, enticing me to stop and investigate.

 It took me years to understand that it’s never just the age of the house that calls to me, or imagining the beauty of what once was, or the chance of finding left-behind antiques.

It is always the mystery of the house. What happened there? What memories are held within its walls from times past when it served as a home, a place made sacred by the love that lived there.

It was a hard lesson for me to learn that not every home is built with love.

A loving home, even when it’s not ours, can be a place of comfort, hospitality, joy and safety as we journey through life. An open door may be a refuge for someone who has wandered far from home or a lifeline for those who have no home, and there are many.

Joyce Kilmer’s moving poem, “The House With Nobody In It,” is a lament for those houses that have done what houses are meant to do, to “have sheltered life” and are now empty, abandoned with no one to care for and no people to care for them.

What makes a house a home if not the people who live within its walls? Certainly, family relationships can get messy, but when home is a place where love dwells it becomes a haven, where each person is known and respected for who they are, even in cluttered, noisy spaces that might not be selected for an HGTV special.

But some homes are not the place where love dwells, where forgiveness finds a room. They are not the places from which we embark on the adventures of life and return to rest, safe and embraced by peace of mind.

Building a home can only be done with intention. Sometimes, we may get caught up in the niceties of our houses and let nurturing our homes fall by the wayside. Sometimes, we need reminding that our homes are sacred ground and need adequate tending.

The Jewish faith teaches that the essence of every Jewish home is to serve as a sanctuary and dwelling place for the divine presence of God, and that every Jewish person is a sanctuary and dwelling place for God’s divine presence, as well. It is a beautiful image for every family to hold on to, and one that gives rise to this Jewish blessing for a home:

“May this home be a place of happiness and health, of contentment, generosity and hope, a home of creativity and kindness. May those who visit and those who live here know only blessing and peace.”

Shalom.

Zoshua Colah on Unsplash photo.

Tim Keyes Consort celebrates its 30th year by presenting a number of new works
including the Suite for Flute and Orchestra, “Now Until Twilight,” an “Irish Overture” and an oratorio, “The Pool” on Saturday June 14, at Richardson Auditorium. Princeton. 

“The Irish Overture” is composed by a Rutger’s Mason Gross student and Concert Master Amelia Cunningham and features the full orchestra. This one movement work is filled with Irish dance melodies cleverly interwoven into a highly energized work. Program length is approximately seven minutes.

The work, “Adagio,” will be conducted by the Consort’s new assistant music director, Kathryn Dauer, who was a member of the Consort for many of her formative years. The “Adagio” is an orchestration of the second movement of a work for organ composed for Metuchen Cathedral director Thomas DeLessio in 2020.  Program length is approximately four minutes.

The Suite for Flute and Orchestra, “Now Until Twilight,” was composed by Tim Keyes for the evening’s principal flute soloist Paulette DiNardo. The work also showcases the flute against a variety of beautiful textures in the orchestra. Program length is approximately seventeen minutes.

“The Pool” is the third oratorio of a triptych of oratorios by Keyes exploring three scriptural stories in John’s Gospel which illuminate Jesus encountering the Samaritan woman at the well, where he offers himself as the Living Water;  Jesus healing the man born blind, where he gives himself as Light of the World, and Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead, where he reveals himself as the Resurrection and the Life.

“The Pool” examines the story of Jesus curing the Man Born Blind at the pool of Siloam.  This healing dramatizes the meaning of being able to see, highlighting the fact that those who can see with their eyes are often blind to the reality of the world around them.  Jesus chastises those who condemn the Man Born Blind by exposing their own blindness and inability to see the truth, that he is the Messiah.

This oratorio is scored for orchestra, choir and four soloists: Tenor Justin Connors (Jesus), Mezzo Soprano Victoria Lotkowictz (Mother of the Man Born Blind), Baritone Gary Gavula (the Man Born Blind) and Bass Graig Corveleyn (the Pharisee).  The drama unfolds over 12 movements and lasts approximately one hour.

The two other oratorios in the triptych are “The Well,” which was premiered in 2016 and highlights the story of Jesus and the woman at the well and “The Stone,” which was premiered in 2024 and explores the raising of Lazarus from the dead.

The Tim Keyes Consort is directed by Tim Keyes, a New Jersey-based composer and conductor and currently pastoral assistant for Music and Liturgy at The Catholic Community of St. Charles Borromeo, Skillman. The Consort is composed of both professional and amateur singers and instrumentalists from throughout Central New Jersey and eastern Pennsylvania.

Tickets are available from the Richardson Box office at: (609) 258-5000 or online at http://www.princeton.edu/richaud .  Ticket price is $25 General Admission. 

This month I will be 72 years young, though my knees might argue the point. I walk with a cane for the most part and am happy to have it. It’s great for getting boxes and cans off the top shelf in the supermarket, and it’s a reminder to me that I have finally learned to accept who I am, with all my imperfections. That’s growth, hard earned and long in coming.

There have been many lessons to learn over that many years, and one I am still trying very hard to fully embrace is my respect for time, our most valuable gift from God. I began to consider the meaning of time in earnest the year my father died. I had driven to Albany with my six children to visit him and my mom, and, as might be expected, things get crazy when you are trying to pack up the car and round up the kids to start the journey home.

As I drove away, I looked in the rearview mirror and saw my dad standing in the street waving us good-bye with a forlorn look on his face. I realized I had not given him a hug or told him I loved him before I left. I consoled myself with the thought that I would make up for it the next time I saw him. But there was no next time. I let unnecessary obligations keep me from making my next planned weekend trip, and on that weekend, he had a massive heart attack and fell into a coma from which he would never wake up.

It is still painful to recall the image of my dad waving us good-bye, but the loss was a transforming experience for me. Following his death, as I was cleaning out his den, I came across a book of poetry. Tucked between the pages of Carl Sandburg’s poems was an old newspaper clipping with a quote attributed to Sandburg: “Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you.”

When I read this quote, it was like a cold cup of water in the face. Truly, I was letting other people spend my time, but I had never thought of it in that way. I could hear the theme of one of my mom’s favorite soap operas: “Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives.” In his own unique way of sneaking up on me with some gem of wisdom, my dad was helping me move forward with my desire to use my time wisely, something which he had learned well in living through the Great Depression.

But honestly, it has been a real challenge to be intentional about how to spend time, and to have insight enough to know when other people are using my time without my consent. Part of the process has been learning that I should be the one making the decisions since time is the coin of my life. I wouldn’t give anyone access to my bank account and tell them to “have at it!” Why was I basically saying the same thing to others about something more important – the days of my life.

Since then, In my world of introspection, time moved to the top of the priority list, as I tried to build a spiritual frame around it, in part because it is a spiritual endeavor, and partly because I was trying to find a reason to justify my saying, “No” more often to people and circumstances – a word that is incredibly hard for me but essential for anyone trying to be intentional with time. To help me stay on track, I include Psalm 90:12 in my prayers, adapting it slightly to make it personal: “So, teach me to count my days that I may gain a wise heart.”

Today I find that God, like my dad, likes to sneak up on me as well, with bits of wisdom, often in nature and often in others who have already learned their lessons. The “nos” have become easier and patches of peaceful unencumbered moments rise up when least expected.

This morning, as I pulled around the building to park my car for work, a young deer ran, leaping and seemingly bouncing, through the tall grass that borders the offices. Then she would stop, look around and return to her obvious enjoyment of her life. I stopped my car just to watch and spent five minutes inspired by one of God’s beautiful creatures doing what I have been trying to do more of for a lot of years. It was a good start to the day.

Find Mary's books, "Angels in High Top Sneakers," "Let Go and Live," and "Things My Father Taught Me About Love," on Amazon.com.

Remi Walle photo on Unsplash

One thing you learn in a family is that everyone has their own way of doing things. Whether it’s children, parents or in
the role of spouse, there is no one way of getting a message across.                                                                                      
Nowhere was that more obvious than at the kitchen table, whether baking, cooking, sharing a meal or having a boisterous conversation with sweets and lots of coffee when extended family, usually my mom’s, arrived.

My dad was a storyteller. He was known for sharing stories that spanned the topics of the many books in his library (including the Bible) and the experiences he had during the Depression, his stint in the army, his trip to Ireland and the hijinks that went on where he worked. He loved it.

He would have been comfortable in school with Socrates, though he might have asked Socrates to move over and give him the floor. He favored waxing philosophical over a piece of apple pie with sharp cheese and a cup of coffee.

My mother taught by example. From her I began to learn the lessons of relationships through her frequent visits to sick or lonely family members, friends or acquaintances, and from the high school students who would run through the supermarket aisles toward her yelling, “Mrs. Clifford!!” with their arms open for a big hug. She was a school secretary, but you would have thought she was the queen.

My mother would enter a room with a smile to warm any heart, a plate of freshly made Jiffy muffins and everyone would begin to feel better. She was love in a dime-store apron. When she got out her muffin tin, the question was, “Who’s sick?” or “Who’s visiting?” Who knew Jiffy muffins would be food for the soul.

She didn’t talk about God or religion, but sometimes while making fresh Syrian bread she would share how much she loved her small Syrian Orthodox Church. She would talk about the incense, the singing in Arabic, the gathering of families who all knew each other, the traditions, and the sense of belonging.

The image of her recollections became the foundation for what I expected church to be. Though I remembered going to Mass with her on occasion, it was the joy in her voice when she shared her memories that lit a desire to find that same experience of church for myself.

I sold my parent’s kitchen table in a garage sale the year after they died. I tried to remind myself it was just a table; the memories would always be there. But when it came time to get rid of my own kitchen table, set nightly for eight or more and bearing the expected scars of a house full of children, it wasn’t just me who balked. My husband, being stoic, took it apart and stored the table and all the chairs in an upstairs unused bedroom. “You never know,” he said.

Then I read a column from friend and colleague, Lois Rogers, reflecting on the memories of her family table. She wrote, “The number of graces prayed over the food spread out on its surface like manna on holy days, holidays and sacramental occasions is incalculable. The bread broken at that table among relatives and friends was something like loaves and fishes, especially in the lean times everyone shared at one time or another.”

I bawled like a baby, but it was cathartic, and led me to further reflection over the years. After all, Jesus was known for his invitations to share a meal, and as good as pita bread is, I think his reasons were more about food for the soul.

Priscilla-du-Preez photo on Unsplash.

As I climbed the stairs to the cathedral choir loft for the first time since COVID shook our faith in so many things, I recalled one of the reasons I was even privileged to be singing for a memorial Mass for Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI.

Many years ago, I was asked to cover a concert for the diocesan newspaper. I already had another event scheduled that day, but something nudged me to rearrange my schedule and accept the assignment in a nearby church.

The music was being performed by a group of familiar singers and musicians, some of whom were also part of the choir I had recently joined.

They filled the sanctuary – women in long black gowns, men in neat tuxedos, flanked by musicians on string and wind instruments. Percussionists were tucked under a soaring arch nearby.

Most were professionally trained, some were parish music directors and cantors, all just amazingly talented.

As I listened in awe to their sound, I found myself wishing I could sing with them, but the complexity of the music seemed daunting. How in the world do they sing eight-part harmony so effortlessly, I wondered?

Though I loved to sing and could play the piano, I resigned myself to my perception of reality that I wasn’t good enough to do what they were doing.

Soon after, during another choir rehearsal, I felt a tap on my shoulder – a God-tap – and someone behind me leaned forward, saying, “I was wondering if you would be interested in singing with us.”

I turned around to see the conductor of the amazing group I had heard in concert and written about just weeks earlier. My first thought was, “Me? You want me to sing with you? Why?”

Fortunately, my self-deprecating thoughts didn’t rule the day and I accepted the invitation, with amazement, and in spite of my fear of failure.

That was more than 17 years ago, and my time with that amazing group, many who have become welcomed friends, has been some of the best of my life, the most challenging, the most fun, the most satisfying; time that inspired me to work harder at developing the gifts I had without comparing them to the extraordinary gifts of others.

When we look back over our lives, we may be surprised at how often life has changed for the better because of a tap on the shoulder, the gentle unexpected nudge in the right direction even when we had no idea we were standing still or on the wrong course.

For me, some of these nudges included the invitation to become a catechist; to agree to start a pre-school program; to be a stringer for the diocesan newspaper; to join the parish choir; become a Hospice volunteer; see a therapist; to change jobs, more than once.

All these God-taps, often delivered by friends or family or even strangers, led to life unfolding in ways I never expected.

I often wonder what I missed those times when I didn’t accept God’s invitation to something new.

Those were the times when I let fear rule, when I chose to stay where I was comfortable rather than face the unknown.

Those were the times when I failed to abide in God’s love because of my own human weakness.

Fortunately, God never gives up on us. Taps on the shoulder, nudges, invitations continue, unless we shut the door on God.

When we allow ourselves to say yes to God’s invitations, to step out in faith in spite of our fear, God-taps inevitably lead to times of growth. While it is true that when we accept God’s invitations, we are often forced to push past our limitations or grapple with pain and loss, the journey is always a journey toward wholeness.

Prayer, and time to listen to God’s whisperings, help us remember ours is a God of love – and possibilities.

Zac Durant photo on Unsplash.

As I climbed the stairs to the cathedral choir loft for the first time since COVID shook our faith in so many things, I recalled one of the reasons I was even privileged to be singing for a memorial Mass for Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI.

Many years ago, I was asked to cover a concert for the diocesan newspaper. I already had another event scheduled that day, but something nudged me to rearrange my schedule and accept the assignment in a nearby church.

The music was being performed by a group of familiar singers and musicians, some of whom were also part of the choir I had recently joined.

They filled the sanctuary – women in long black gowns, men in neat tuxedos, flanked by musicians on string and wind instruments. Percussionists were tucked under a soaring arch nearby.

Most were professionally trained, some were parish music directors and cantors, all just amazingly talented.

As I listened in awe to their sound, I found myself wishing I could sing with them, but the complexity of the music seemed daunting. How in the world do they sing eight-part harmony so effortlessly, I wondered?

Though I loved to sing and could play the piano, I resigned myself to my perception of reality that I wasn’t good enough to do what they were doing.

Soon after, during another choir rehearsal, I felt a tap on my shoulder – a God-tap – and someone behind me leaned forward, saying, “I was wondering if you would be interested in singing with us.”

I turned around to see the conductor of the amazing group I had heard in concert and written about just weeks earlier. My first thought was, “Me? You want me to sing with you? Why?”

Fortunately, my self-deprecating thoughts didn’t rule the day and I accepted the invitation, with amazement, and in spite of my fear of failure.

That was more than 17 years ago, and my time with that amazing group, many who have become welcomed friends, has been some of the best of my life, the most challenging, the most fun, the most satisfying; time that inspired me to work harder at developing the gifts I had without comparing them to the extraordinary gifts of others.

When we look back over our lives, we may be surprised at how often life has changed for the better because of a tap on the shoulder, the gentle unexpected nudge in the right direction even when we had no idea we were standing still or on the wrong course.

For me, some of these nudges included the invitation to become a catechist; to agree to start a pre-school program; to be a stringer for the diocesan newspaper; to join the parish choir; become a Hospice volunteer; see a therapist; to change jobs, more than once.

All these God-taps, often delivered by friends or family or even strangers, led to life unfolding in ways I never expected.

I often wonder what I missed those times when I didn’t accept God’s invitation to something new.

Those were the times when I let fear rule, when I chose to stay where I was comfortable rather than face the unknown.

Those were the times when I failed to abide in God’s love because of my own human weakness.

Fortunately, God never gives up on us. Taps on the shoulder, nudges, invitations continue, unless we shut the door on God.

When we allow ourselves to say yes to God’s invitations, to step out in faith in spite of our fear, God-taps inevitably lead to times of growth. While it is true that when we accept God’s invitations, we are often forced to push past our limitations or grapple with pain and loss, the journey is always a journey toward wholeness.

Prayer, and time to listen to God’s whisperings, help us remember ours is a God of love – and possibilities.

Zac Durant photo on Unsplash.

Imagine this scene on the maternity floor of the local hospital.                                                                                                                                                               

A young woman has just given birth to her first child. She and her husband are looking down with love at the tiny infant wrapped in a small pink blanket. Beaming, the mother says, “Isn’t she just the most mediocre baby you have ever seen?”

What?

Now, imagine if the creation story in Genesis read this way: On the third day, God created grass and the fruit tree and God looked at what was created and said, “Ehh – So, So.”

And on the fourth day, God created lights in the firmament of the heavens and, looking at what had been created, said, “This is pretty OK.”

Then God saw everything God had made and said, “Well, I could probably do better, but who’s going to know? This is good enough.”

Seriously? How disappointing would that be to know God could have done better, especially in creating us.

Instead, Scripture says, with every new day and every new creation God looked at the finished product and saw, “It was good!”

Now everybody knows God does not have the form of a human person (at least not until Jesus came along) but imagine, just for a moment, God standing on the first piece of land called into existence, God arms crossed over a God chest and, with a grin full of pride on a very radiant face, saying, “DUDE, this is so GOOD!!”

So just what is it that makes something created something good?

The love with which it is created.

And if that is the case, then nothing God created can be mediocre, so-so, or not good enough. Not trees, not earth, not people, and especially not the human body.

The body was created to express the love with which it was made. God’s love – a love that brings comfort through the gentle caress of a hand, strength through a warm hug, and love that shares grief when friends cry together.

Or love that creates life through the total giving of a husband and wife to each other through God’s gift of sexual intercourse. Such love is holy and life affirming.

Pornography, on the other hand, whether it is in magazines, videos, movies or cyber-porn, denies the dignity of the whole person, body and soul.

Pornography is about using and abusing another person for perverse and personal pleasure, pure selfishness. Sadly, our culture has made pornography not only acceptable but commonplace in the life of teenagers. This is not for the benefit of our beautiful teens but for the benefit of companies that profit in many ways from pornography.

Pornography is a sin that brings evil into the world by the bad way it uses sexuality and the human body – two very good and beautiful gifts created by God.

St. Pope John Paul II taught often about the great gifts of the human body and human sexuality. He said some very important things for teens to remember:

“A person’s rightful due is to be treated as an object of love, not as an object for use.”

And …

“There is no dignity when the human dimension is eliminated from the person. In short, the problem with pornography is not that it shows too much of the person, but that it shows far too little.”

What the Holy Father was saying was that while pornography shows a lot of disrespectful images of the human body, it doesn’t show anything of the wonderful, amazing, beautiful parts of the human person – the parts that make you the special person you are. Never mediocre. Always amazing.

Think about it.

Photo by Melissa Askew on Unsplash