Judas no longer believed he was “chosen,” both as a Jew and as one of those few handpicked by Jesus and destined to change the world for the better. He could imagine no good could coming from his association with Jesus and the other men and women who had bought into his message. Having given up on the greater power of unconditional love, he snuffed his inner light, then his life.

Still, I canonize Judas. I have an insight into how this unfortunate story really ended. Beyond the door of death, he rose to new life. Welcomed by his all-forgiving Lord (“. . . they know not what they do”), the humbled Judas took his gifted, if undeserved, place in heaven. I see him spending eternity interceding for those still alive who have lost hope, who cannot imagine they are loved without condition. St. Judas Iscariot is patron saint of bridge jumpers, ODers, suicides by police, and others whose spiritual vision ends at the tips of their noses. In their last hour, the restored apostle is at their side urging them, “Don’t despair of God’s love. You are important. Your light is still meant to shine.” Some do listen and choose life. Others don’t and find it, as St. Judas Iscariot did, only in the next.

Harvesting the Depth and Riches of My Life

What are my thoughts about Judas Iscariot being the apostle in heaven that he never was on earth?

How important am I to God?

How will I let myself be light to those around me today?

1. Isaiah 49:1-6

Too often we go to famous authors and poets for quotes about the meaning of life. I’m looking for the wisdom of ordinary people, living ordinary lives to the best of their ability. The following is an example that a lovely woman in South America left on my Facebook wall:

“What I learned about life is that what you give to others is what makes your life special, that the love you feel deep inside is what really fulfills you, and God IS Love, and to have friends is to have a great treasure.”–Ana Antunes

Through this project, maybe we can bring some everyday sanity to our very confused and out-of-kilter world.

Some background. My wife and I have two daughters whom we welcomed into our family at pre-school age. We never had a baby in our family. I never had to change a diaper. Since the birth of our first grandchild in 2007, I have discoved close-up the marvels and wonders of new birth, and yes, I’ve changed a few poopie diapers, too. I’ve discovered a wonderous stage of being–infancy–that I’d never paid attention to before. I’ve learned the universal language of new-born life. 

Upon meeting this Pompei mother, millenia deceased, we made a spiritual connection. I had to write about this experience, but I choked on early prose versions of my story. The only way to express the moment we had shared was in verse. . . . as follows:
 

 Pompei
August 24, 79 A.D.

It fell so fast the
cloud of death;
no chance for aid—
on stone-laid street
my one last step;

eyes down, face hid,
womb pressed to earth,
brief shield ’gainst fire-
flung stone—a crib
for babe’s long sleep.

Pompei
July 10, 2008 A.D.

I gawk, snap, feel
out of place, no
right to break your
rest; yet I am
slave to your grace.

Was this new life
your first sweet fruit,
love’s best of gifts?
Did some die home,
no mom to hold?

From lava tomb you
rose to see day’s
light and through time’s
thin veil hail my
soul: You know me.

Our tour moves on
to sites fresh dug;
with a glance, I
bid good-bye, carve
you on my heart.

You stir this old
dad’s core, set late
to flame with awe
of new-born life.
I’ll give you voice.

Copyright (c) 2008, Alfred J. Garrotto

It happened so fast. On the first day of our Mediterranean vacation.  I had just paid four euros for a Margherita pizza-to-die-for in a Naples ristorante. A place recommended by Vito, our all-knowing guide through the unearthed ruins of Pompei. I secured my wallet inside my zippered and clasped shoulder bag (a remnant of last summer’s Alaskan cruise). Feeling positive about our good fortune, Esther and I set off on the two-block journey back to the port and our Carnival Freedom home away from home for the next two weeks.

Prior to this first venture off the ship, the staff had warned us that we had entered a city where “a red traffic light is only a suggestion.” Huddled on a street corner with a mass of death-defying pedestrians, we let the natives run interference until we reached safety. It wasn’t until we crossed the gangway to the ship’s security station that I noticed my shoulder bag unlatched, the wallet compartment empty.

The reality so shocked me, I refused to believe what my mind and senses reported. This couldn’t be happening; not to me. I had taken precautions. To think that someone had targeted me as a rube and overcome my prudent defenses caused dismay and shame, along with a sense of having been victimized. 

Reason forced its way through this emotional turmoil and I assessed the damage. Five hundred dollars in euros and U.S. greenbacks. An assortment of credit cards. My Social Security and medical cards. Driver’s license. Two missing photos of my grandson cost me the pride of showing him off to shipmates. Not my passport, thank God. Esther held that precious document which became my only photo ID. It took the rest of the afternoon, with the patient help of the ship’s Pursers, to block credit cards and order new ones, forestalling further financial damage. A close call, because $3,000 in purchases had been attempted—and rejected—within the hour it took us to return to the ship.

Back in our stateroom, we faced two options. Declare our vacation ruined from the start and go through the motions for the rest of the cruise. Or, accept what had happened and move on. In the end, we decided, “It’s only money we’ve lost.” Plus, we still had half of what we had brought and could charge whatever we needed on other cards. More important, we had each other and no one had gotten hurt.

Yet, something remained unfinished. Our decision to go on had outrun my personal emotional damage. Inner peace stalled at the bitterness I held against the person who had violated my life. Jean Valjean, my literary hero and moral model, nudged me toward recovery. Echoing Jesus’ call to “love our enemies,” he urged his daughter Cosette, “Those Thenardiers [the innkeepers] were wicked. We must forgive them,” despite the physical and emotional abuse she had suffered. A supporting voice came from Stanford professor Fred Luskin, author of Forgive For Good, who outlines the physical and mental health benefits of forgiving and getting on with one’s life.

To catch up with my “move on” decision, I had to forgive the anonymous thief and pray for his or her welfare and change of heart. So I did—or tried to, given my fragile resolve. The rest of our trip was truly amazing and thoroughly enjoyable. But the Naples experience remained a pebble in my shoe,  a discomfort that has lingered into the post-vacation business of identity protection.

Lessons learned from this incident are many. The most lasting is the wisdom of a forgiving heart. Thank you, Jesus; thank you, Jean Valjean; and thank you, Fred Luskin.

When my literary hero, Jean Valjean, had the opportunity to kill his nemesis, Inspector Javert, he chose nonviolence and released him. Would one more death have saved the people of France from oppression? That question challenges me. But I must answer, “No.”

So, why must we associate this holiday entirely with honoring the military? Our thinking in America today is this: if we can only kill enough of the people who hate us in the Middle East and wherever they are in the world, we’ll run out of the need to kill and finally arrive at . . . peace. Wisdom or folly? 

On this 4th of July weekend, let’s honor freedom-loving, peace-loving Americans of all ages, races, creeds and walks of life, including our brothers and sisters in military service. Each of us plays a key role in keeping America safe and free.

This blog site is devoted to wisdom—what it is, how to arrive at it, and honoring those who possess and exemplify it. The “patron saint” of this site is Jean Valjean, protagonist of Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables and quintessential wise man of modern literature.

Today, my thoughts turn to a wise man who blessed my life, just as the magi blessed a Bethlehem child with gifts. On May 8, 2008—has it been only a week?—my friend, brother in Christ, and mentor Bill Joyce’s frail, bent body gave out. Or better, it opened up to release this treasured spirit to soar to God–and to Joyce, the wife who owned his heart and who lingered beyond the grave to keep him company until he found his way home to her.

Bill stored within his near-85 years a potent mix of Jesuit faith and knowledge, the tenderness of one who has known love in flesh and spirit, and a healthy common sense born of having learned well from his life experience. At the same time, wise Bill terrified those of us who loved and cared about him with his parallel foolishness. Case in point, a solo roundtrip to the symphony in San Francisco by car, public transportation, and on foot—less than two weeks before he died. But Bill lived life “his way,” as the song goes. Who of us looking back would say he should have lived our way, instead? His was the way of wisdom, tainted as it was with stubborn indiscretion.

I might consider myself too old to need a big brother, but in Bill I found the older, wiser brother I never had (being the only boy with two sisters). He thought everything I did was great. Don’t we all need someone like that in our life? Even better that it’s someone not related and thereby obligated to be supportive. Whether I was teaching, writing, or telling stupid jokes, he was my biggest fan. He made me want to be better.

This morning I was at my desk preparing the first class of our new RCIA Inquiry Series. Next week a new group of adults will sit in front of us saying, “Okay, show me what you’ve got. Tell me why I should I put my faith in Jesus Christ. Why should I trust the Catholic Church to be my moral compass and spiritual home?” As I pondered my response, tears rolled down my cheeks. “Hm, what’s this about?” I wondered. Then it hit me. Bill won’t be at his post in the back of the room next Thursday night. At least, not in the same way. Our visiting wise man has returned home to his native country.

(c) 2008 by Alfred J. Garrotto