Garden of Agony

Basically, it’s Gethsemane all over again. That’s how I approach the Altar of Repose on Holy Thursday. We’ve just journeyed through Jesus at his Last Supper, when he took bread and wine and said “This is my Body. . . This is my Blood. . . Do this in memory of me. . .” When we eat this bread and drink this cup we proclaim his death on the cross.

Jesus washes our feet. The meal means nothing unless we go out and love other people as Jesus loved us. When we wash others’ feet we are washing the feet of the Lord himself. What a beautiful way to remember his love for us!

And that procession! Pange lingua gloriosi . . . It’s the ancient Eucharistic hymn composed by Saint Thomas Aquinas and sung by the Church for centuries on this night. The melody haunts me and strikes a deep chord within me. I remember singing this very hymn at a very young age in the children’s choir of my home parish. I draw a deep connection with generations of Catholics before me who have sung that hymn on Holy Thursday night.

The Eucharistic presence of Jesus is taken away from the church, just as he was arrested and taken away from his disciples on that night. The power of ritual!

As mentioned, the Altar of Repose for me is my sharing in Jesus’ agony in the garden. After seeing to the details of tonight’s liturgy, it takes me a while to settle into deep prayer at this altar. I am affirmed by the faith of the many people who fill our chapel, each person bringing their own memories of Holy Thursday night, their own prayer intentions, their own struggles.

Lord, I am not worthy. That’s all I can think of tonight at the Altar of Repose. I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, that you have called me to be your light to the world, that you have chosen to be my friend. Try as I might, I cannot fathom why you even bother with me, a sinner. I am imperfect and inadequate, impatient with myself and with the world around me. It’s a fractured world, isn’t it? So divided and polemic. Our leaders seem to excel only in pointing fingers, and even those who call themselves Christians are seemingly driven by a spirit contrary to the commandment of love that we remember on this holy night.

Lord, I am not worthy.

I am distracted, so I pray for my mother. I remember my late father and my brother Tops, both gone from this world. I pray for all my family and my friends. I remember those who have asked me to pray for them, for the sick and the depressed and the directionless. And yet it still comes back to five words:

Lord, I am not worthy.

What do you want of me, Lord? Is this the same confusion you felt at Gethsemane? You knew what your Father wanted. You knew full well that you would die the next day. You, the Son of God, would taste death itself in the most excruciating way. The mystery of the Incarnation became very real in that garden of agony, where your divinity was almost overshadowed by your deep and very real humanity.

“Take this cup away from me,” you prayed ardently. Those closest to you couldn’t even stay awake and join you in this prayer, a first hint of the abandonment to come.

Lord, in your agony, I feel your very human doubts. In some strange way, I feel affirmed by your doubts because that means you understand where I am coming from. How can I conquer my doubts, Lord? Give me a sign!

Tonight, I only see the Sign of the Cross. Is that how my doubts will be dispelled? Lord, the cross is too much for me. Take this cup away from me!

And yet, despite your own doubts, you eventually say to your Father, “Not my will, but yours be done.” That submission, that surrender and trust, carried you through the next several hours as that heavy cross was forced upon your shoulders.

I think I get it, Lord. Help me! Help me to surrender!

Not my will but yours be done.




Matthew 26:36-46

Radio Silence

"In telecommunications, radio silence is a status in which all fixed or mobile radio stations in an area are asked to stop transmitting for safety or security. . .”
- Wikipedia

“Turning On” has become such a routine part of our everyday existence: wake up; plug in iPod; turn on TV; start car and turn on radio; muzak in the elevator and at the office. I believe we have forgotten how to live with silence. What are we afraid of?

Is there some kind of insecurity that is gnawing at our souls? Is it loneliness? Despite our amazing technological interconnection, I think fear of being alone still permeates our collective millennial subconscious. We need to fill up the silence with the frenzied cacophony of our modern world. In the process of turning on, we are turning off a window to God.

I’m a Catholic vegetarian, so I am sometimes asked what I abstain from on the Fridays of Lent. This year, I thought I would try something new: radio silence. Please understand, as a freelancer, I do most of my work at home alone. First thing in the morning, without giving it any thought, I turn on television sets in several rooms around my house as my iPod plays continuously throughout the day. I suppose this helps to give me an illusion that I am not alone in this world. After all, look at all the talking heads yammering away on those screens!

I admit this was more difficult than I expected. On Ash Wednesday, I went cold turkey with radio silence, and the temptation to flick on the switches was great indeed. But within the enforced silence came an unexpected gift: the gentle urge to pray.

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Here is a prayer I wrote anonymously for Spirit & Song-2 (on page 273). I need to listen better to myself!

Be Still

I searched for God
in my avalanche of
emails and voicemails,
IMs and txts,
TVs and MP3s,
but the Lord was not in the electronics.

I searched for God
in the drone of endless conversations
that permeate the hurried pace of
my daily routine,
but the Lord was not in the clatter.

I could not find the Lord,
though I searched in vain
through all that surrounded me!

And then, I heard a gentle voice.
“Be still.”

There, within the silence
of my own inner peace,

I found God.

Yes It Is

So I’m listening to my iPod tonight as I cook dinner. The “Beatles Softies” playlist is on and, without warning, “Yes It Is” starts playing.

My spicy tofu tomato sauce abruptly takes a back seat as I turn down the burners and simply listen to the 1965 lyrics:

I could be happy with you by my side,
If I could forget her.
But it’s my pride,
Yes it is,
Yes it is,
Oh, yes it is.
Yeah.

Suddenly, I am transported back to junior high. 8th grade is an explosive time in life. We’re just discovering feelings and stirrings inside of ourselves that we are ill equipped to deal with. It’s the 1960s and the decade’s “anything goes” spirit has touched even the yearlings who already see “do your own thing” as an emerging mantra.

I was a child of immigrant parents from the Philippines who were vainly trying to raise their children in traditional Filipino values that seemed to be at odds with psychedelic America.

There were several girls I had a crush on: Carol. Barbara. Leslie. And Patricia. I was the oldest in my family and had no big brother or uncle to look up to for advice in matters of the heart. All I had were television sit-coms, fellow classmates (equally puzzled!), and . . . the Beatles.

In their middle period –- Help, Rubber Soul, Revolver -– the Beatles were still singing unabashed boy-meets-girl love songs. The social consciousness and maturity of Sgt. Pepper and The White Album were in the not-too-distant future. But in 1966, the Fab Four were singing “Please come on back to me. I’m lonely as can be. I need you!”

Understand, there was a lot of peer pressure in 8th grade for the guys to find a girlfriend. Couples were sitting together at lunch, girls’ books were being carried by guys, and a quarterly school dance was the hot ticket of the day. But I was naïve and sheltered. I didn’t even notice that Patricia had an interest in me until her girl friends started dropping hints. “Hey, Ken! When are you gonna get together with Pat?”

I was flattered by the attention but I tried to ignore it. My mother had tried her best to warn me against the “dangers” of “dating” so young. I was nothing, if not a good son. But it was Patricia’s birthday, and she was having a party, and even though she didn’t officially invite me, it was “understood” that my presence would be expected.

Of course, I heard about her party. Of course, I wanted to be there. Patricia and I had already started seeing each other at lunch. I was already carrying her books as we walked home from school. But go to her party? What would my parents say?

So when Pat’s friends knocked on my door on the afternoon of the party, asking “Aren’t you going?” –- what else could I do? I looked around for something nice in the house, wrapped it as a gift, put on my best shirt, and walked to Patricia’s house –- without telling my mom!

I was greeted at the door as a hero! All the girls in my class were there, with their boyfriends. They all beamed at me approvingly. Pat had already told her parents about me and they welcomed me warmly. It was a cool party! Everyone talked and joked and we were all so glad to be there.

And then the record player started playing the hits of the day: the Supremes, the Dave Clark Five, the Beach Boys, Petula Clark and . . . the Beatles. “Ticket to Ride” was the mega hit of the past summer and, on the flip side of that 45 single, there was the melancholy ballad, “Yes It Is.”

It was a slow song, perfect for a slow dance. Patricia and I held each other and slow danced to “Yes It Is.” In my middle school mind, time froze. I felt as if a spotlight was shining on us and everyone stopped dead in their tracks to watch Pat and me. At that point in time, everything felt right in my world. Beautiful, red-haired Pat and me. It was a moment that I still treasure to this day.

Pat and I became very close after that. We sat next to each other in class and walked home together often. We talked about the future, where we were going for high school. But there was another draw in my life at that time. I had decided to go to a high school seminary and consider the priesthood as my calling.

Middle school emotions are raw and underdeveloped. I don’t think Pat took my going to the seminary very well. Of course! We slowly went our own ways. I was going to the seminary. She was left out in the cold -- or so I thought. We never really talked about it or even said goodbye. Hey, we were only kids! But I have always felt pangs of regret every time “Yes It Is” starts playing on the radio or in my iPod.

Please don’t wear red tonight.
This is what I said tonight.
For red is the color that my baby wore,
And what’s more,
It’s true.
Yes, it is, it’s true.

Yes, it is, it’s true.

Whither, My Blog?

I don't really know if people are actually reading this blog. After all, I only write sporadically. When I started this blog, I had not yet been on Facebook or Twitter. Those social networks are much easier to maintain. 140 characters on Twitter? No prob! Witty one-liners on Facebook. I can do that!

Blogs are a lot more work: not only complete sentences but also complete paragraphs. Heck, complete cohesive thoughts! And then there's the pressure I put upon myself in my role as a Catholic composer and author. My fellow Catholic composers all seem to write profound insights that are inspiring and uplifting. Good Lord, are they like that every single moment of the day? I know I am not.

Hey, I'm just a poor wayfaring stranger, traveling through this world of woe. (That's a line from an old American folk song that we used to sing at Mass in the 1960s, by the way.) Certainly, my faith is important to me. Jesus Christ is the driving force in my life. But I am a complex human being trying to balance my faith with the pull of the world and the way my life is unfolding as I enter the cusp of senior citizenship.

I have always believed that we can find the sacred in the secular. That is what the Incarnation is about. That is what the Folk Mass was about, and what contemporary Christian and Catholic music try to sing about. Ultimately, that is what religion has tried to be about.

I guess what I'm trying to say is: Instead of trying to find something profound to say on the Internet that will lead readers to the transcendence of God, I feel a lot more comfortable writing about my earthly experience and somehow finding God's presence in that.

And so my blogging begins anew. . .

My Friend, Matthew

It is with a heavy heart that I write this reflection on my little friend, Matthew the cat, my faithful companion who was taken from me so suddenly on August 25. He had just returned home after being locked up in the local animal shelter for five days. How he got there is a mystery. The staff told me some kindly person found Matthew wandering in the street and turned him in, thinking he was a stray. Luckily, he had the implanted ID chip, and the staff was able to contact me.

Oh, how Matthew loved being home again! He followed me around the house and wouldn’t let me out of his sight. After I treated him to his favorite canned salmon dinner, he meowed to go outside so he could once again roam free, see his feline friends, and climb fences and trees. As much as he enjoyed being with me, he also loved his freedom.

A few years ago, in my old Spirit Spot column on spiritandsong.com, I told the story of how Matthew adopted me. Re-reading it now makes me realize what a gift he was to me.

Of St. Francis, Sister Moon and Brother Cat

Last Thursday morning, we rose at 6:30 as usual, with Matthew hopping on my bed and gently nudging me awake to feed him. I then let him out and watched as he jumped onto the back fence and surveyed his world, his tail wagging happily. At 8:45 I went upstairs to get a book. Matthew was lying down at one of his favorite spots at the top of the stairs and his presence made me smile. Then I looked at him more closely. Something was wrong. Although his head was down, his eyes were wide open and he was not breathing. I called my vet and she said to bring him in right away.

I drove to the pet hospital as fast as I could. Matthew was a favorite of the staff, and they ushered us quickly into the examining room. The doctor checked for signs of life but she only confirmed my fear. She looked up at me gently. “I’m sorry . . .”

I am a pastoral ministry professional and very familiar with the five stages of grief. The shock that washed over me was mixed in with a little anger. How? How could this happen? Matthew was not even 5 years old. In his last check-up, the doctor gave him a clean bill of health. She said she has seen sudden death in young cats before. We discussed the possibility that Matthew might have ingested something toxic in the neighborhood. It is the risk that owners of outdoor cats take in allowing them free range.

The staff allowed me a few minutes alone. As I scratched Matthew gently behind his ears one final time, I thanked him for the privilege of being his friend. I blessed his body, pulled the white blanket over his head, and walked away slowly.

My house now seems a little emptier. Matthew’s food dish and water bowl are still in their usual place, and his favorite toys are scattered in every room. I catch myself in tears every now and then. Crying for a cat! And why not? After all, Matthew was my friend, my loyal companion. I was looking forward to his growing old along with me, with his purring presence a soothing balm for the passing years. Now, no more.

Memories flood my mind. On Sunday afternoons, when I returned home from church after a long morning of liturgies, Matthew was always waiting for me at the porch. He would hop on the hood of my car as I parked. I held out my fist to him, in the “fist bump” greeting that is exchanged between buddies. Matthew always walked up to me and bumped his little head on my fist.

Regular listeners of my weekly Liturgy Podcast have learned to expect surprise cameos from Matthew as he would sometimes sneak up behind me during a recording and meow into the microphone. Matthew often took walks with me in the neighborhood, and he delighted in showing off his athletic prowess by suddenly scampering up a tree that we passed by.

Occasionally, I would get a knock on my door. “Is that your white cat?” a new neighbor might ask. “Well, he just invited himself into my house!” Yes, Matthew was the unofficial Welcome Committee of the neighborhood.

What I found most endearing about Matthew is how he was always interested in what I was doing. If I was working at my computer, he would hop onto my desk and sit next to the laptop as I typed away. And boy, did he love music! He enjoyed my piano playing and always came into my studio whenever I played Bach. I actually tested this out a few times. When Matthew was in the hall outside my music room I would play rock or jazz and get no response. But whenever I played Bach, we walked right in and sat at my feet, his tail wagging gently to the music.

I will never again play “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” without thinking of my cat.

Matthew taught me a lot about enjoying life and enjoying the moment. His enthusiasm was always contagious. More than anything else, he taught me about loyalty. What a friend I had in Matthew!

Although he is no longer with me physically, Matthew will always live on in my heart. I have been writing down the stories of his many adventures over the past three years, and my plan was to someday write a children’s book. “Someday” needs to happen sooner than later. My book on Matt the Cat is all I have left of my little pal. Stay tuned.

St. Francis’ heavenly animal preserve just got brighter. Matthew, thank you for being my friend.

First Folk Mass: 1968

This is the original draft of the Introduction to my book, Keep the Fire Burning: The Folk Mass Revolution. I eventually decided on a different Intro but this draft serves as a remembrance of my very first Folk Mass when I was a sophomore at Queen of Angels High School Seminary, Mission Hills, California.

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In 1968 the world was a mess. The spring assassinations of Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy were followed by urban unrest and a violent Democratic convention in Chicago. The Soviet Union had crushed out dissent in Poland and Czechoslovakia. Millions were starving in Biafra as bloodshed escalated in the endless war in Vietnam. Humanae Vitae, Pope Paul VI’s encyclical on birth control, drew the ire of progressive Catholics and was widely ignored.

Within the cloistered confines of Queen of Angels High School Seminary, this global turmoil was far removed. It was time for morning meditation, and the seminarians were supposed to focus on the spiritual platitudes from their olive green prayer book. But all that went out the window on this glorious autumn morning. There was a definite buzz in the air, a tangible excitement that sliced through the mandatory silence like the proverbial hot knife through butter. Here at the minor seminary of the conservative Archdiocese of Los Angeles, we were going to celebrate our very first Folk Mass!

I was a rowdy sophomore, ill at ease in my black-and-white boarding school uniform. Most of us seminarians, despite our fresh-faced youth, were already professional liturgists. We prayed a modified version of the Divine Office together morning, noon, evening and night. We celebrated Mass daily at 6:30 am, sometimes in silence, but usually in song with the seminary’s grand pipe organ swelling out in the “four hymn” mode so prevalent in the mid-1960s. On feast days we sang High Mass with Jan Vermulst’s Mass for Christian Unity. Occasionally, we sang in chant, and our alma mater was the beautiful Gregorian “Ave Maria.” But on this memorable morning, as Father Ready and the altar servers processed out of the sacristy, our voices rang out with a fire that we never before experienced at liturgy.

Come, let us worship the Lord, our God.
Come, sing praise to his name . . .

The accompaniment was simply three acoustic guitars and an upright bass, without a microphone, and the student musicians stood in the back of chapel, behind the assembly. Their stirring blend reminded me of my favorite Peter, Paul & Mary records. There was no cantor. In fact, that word had not yet been applied to Catholic liturgy. The momentum of the singing was carried by our unabashed youthful enthusiasm. We were worshipping God with the sound of our generation!

Something was happening in our Church, something that was quite beyond our secluded existence in California’s San Fernando Valley. As I sang along with my brother seminarians, I glanced down at the copyright credits on our printed worship aid. Our music director, Monsignor Gerken, had taken care to do everything properly.

“Come, Let Us Worship” by Bro. Gregory Ballerino. Copyright © 1967 by the Gregorian Institute of America, Chicago, Illinois.

“They’ll Know We Are Christians by Our Love” by Fr. Peter Scholtes. Copyright © 1966 by F.E.L. Church Publications, Ltd., Chicago, Illinois.

These exciting songs came from the Midwest a year or two prior to our singing them. Clearly, an extraordinary Spirit was sweeping the land. After that first Folk Mass, my life would never be the same.

The story of the Folk Mass is a largely forgotten chapter in the history of liturgical renewal in the United States. The mere mention of those words brings a variety of reactions ranging from wistful nostalgia to the rolled eyes of outright derision. The Folk Mass movement has been blamed for everything from the allegedly poor state of liturgical music today to the beginning of the end for the sensus mysterii. It conjures up images of guitar-wielding nuns in modified habits, too-groovy-for-their-own-good priests, and liturgical experimentation gone haywire. And yet, for many American Catholics, the Folk Mass was the only tangible way that the Second Vatican Council came to life.

The Council was certainly groundbreaking. News accounts of the bishops’ deliberations filtered back to Americans by way of official condensed reports in their diocesan newspapers or in Xavier Rynne’s “eyewitness” accounts in The New Yorker. Terms like Sacrosanctum Concilium, “ecumenical dialogue,” and “The Church in the Modern World” were weighty and even intimidating to the average person in the pew. But celebrating Mass in English? That got people’s attention. Congregational singing? It was awkward at first, but people reluctantly caught on. Guitars and folk music? Good Lord! What next? The Folk Mass was either embraced whole-heartedly or rejected vehemently. For the former, it was the means by which a whole generation became personally involved with their Church. . .


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Keep the Fire Burning: The Folk Mass Revolution
by Ken Canedo

Available on Amazon.com

Mary Magdalene: Early on Sunday

I was at the garden that morning,
weeping.
Just weeping.

We women discovered the tomb empty.
After everything he’d been through,
his body was stolen away.
Even in death the humiliation persisted.

Someone approached me,
the gardener, I presumed.
Why are you weeping? he asked.

Sir, tell me where you have laid him
and I will take him away.

And then he called my name
with his unmistakable voice
that could penetrate right through
to a person’s soul.

He is alive!
Alive and smiling radiantly!
I was beside myself with joy!

He is alive!
He, who lifted me out of the depths
and called me to a fuller life!
He, who believed in me so profoundly
that I started believing in myself!
I rushed to embrace him.

Do not cling to me, he said gently,
for I have not yet ascended.
Go now to my brothers and tell them
I am ascending
to my Father and your Father . . .

Such news I could never keep secret!
I ran faster than I thought possible
to share my joy with Peter and the others.

They didn’t believe me.

Oh, they were polite and caring,
but I could see it in their eyes,
their faces.

They didn’t believe me!
Were they so defeated by the shock of his death
that they could not receive this good news?
I could almost be angry,
if I didn’t love them so.

Peter, dear Peter, did stir to life at my story.
He and John ran out to the tomb
to see for themselves.

He is alive!
I know this with every fiber of my being!
I saw him!

He is alive!