Ben Camino's Tribute to Father Michael Levy, O. M. I.

 Father Mike: 

Magician, Mystic, and a Good Man. 

*On Saturday September 12, at Saint Mary's Church in downtown San Antonio, the memorial service for Father Michael Levy O.M.I. was held. He had passed away on July 17 but due to the coronavirus pandemic, no memorial service was held at that time. Even though the September 12 service was still affected by the virus and mourners were socially distanced and masked, many attended in person or virtually to honor Father Levy -- a pastor, a teacher, a mentor, a coach, and a friend. 

After the mass, several speakers eulogized Father Mike. What follows here are some (brief?) comments from my perspective as his student, as a player on his team, and as someone who got to know him in a deeper, richer way later in our life. I also have provided the link to the incredibly inspiring and joyful tribute to Father Mike by Michele Maxwell who directs the Marian Center of San Antonio. This was the highpoint of the memorial for me. Those of us who "got" Father Levy were thrilled to know that others will remember him, as Michele so beautifully said it, as one "who drank deeply of his earthly life, in his full humanity, just as Jesus did." Here is the link to Michele's tribute, followed by my reflections. 

https://www.facebook.com/stmarys.san.antonio/posts/2739394966316414?__tn__=K-R

If you were (or still are) one of Father Mike Levy's "boys" -- that means you attended a Catholic boarding school in San Antonio by the not-very-surprising name of Saint Anthony's. And those boys, including his Reverend Doctor Highness Ben Camino, O.M.I.H.U.N.G.R.Y.(get it?), knew Father Mike as teacher (algebra and physics), coach (basketball, two state championships), and Prefect (head disciplinarian, and, therefore, he with whom one would rather not tangle). 

Father Mike meant a lot to a lot of us. Some of us more than others, but to all of us he was the stuff of legend. His veins (or were they arteries?) stood out when he was angry with you for breaking the rules or taking a stupid shot. Unless your name was Bill Sain; Levy never got mad at Sain. If your name was Burkhart, it was a different story. Lots of Levy veins/arteries. By the way, that's the main way we disrespected Father Levy. Just calling him Levy. We didn't want to get caught by Levy with some witty disrespectful nickname in our mouths. 

He had a wicked sense of humor, he used to make his students tape (audio) Notre Dame games for him if he was too busy to listen, and he was not only a great basketball coach, but a great fan of great players -- especially those who played the game with flair and showmanship. Mostly, he was "all in" on everything he did. Especially his vocation. Don't try to follow in his footsteps exactly. You wouldn't be able to keep up with his energy. 

As I got to know Father Mike better the last few years of his life, visiting him at the Madonna Residence on the grounds of the Oblate College in San Antonio (not far from the gym at Saint Anthony's), I got to know him in a different way. We talked less and less about our basketball days and those great memories. We talked instead about how to pray, about the glory of the created world (as celebrated especially in the psalms and canticles), and about the majesty of God. And about what books he thought I should be reading.That may not sound very interesting, but it was to him. And he made it sound interesting to me as well. Of course I also brought him gifts from my sister (a knitted shawl he like to brag about) and I might have smuggled in some wine some (all) of the time. 

In fact, I asked him once a few years ago about how to pray the liturgical hours the way I knew that the priests used to do (I sensed that things had changed, but I didn't know how). So he was responsible for encouraging me to use the book that has made a big difference in my life ever since, Benedictine Daily Prayer: A Short Breviary. After I bought one (well one for me and one for four or five other friends), I would bring it with me on my visits and ask him to read the psalms and prayers for the day. Anyway, or anyways as Jenny alway(s) says, I really could talk/write all day about Father Mike, but I won't. But I will tell a story I heard at the memorial mass.  

It was Father Levy's first day as a teacher at Saint Anthony's. It was a religion class. The new teacher asked the room of young teenagers why they believed in God. They, of course, sat waiting for someone else to tackle what was obviously a trick question designed to show their theological ignorance. Father Mike helped them out and answered it for them. "You believe in God because he made everything out of nothing. Right?" Right, of course, yes Father. I'm sure it sounded good enough to the class, and I assume some of them even wrote it down in their notebooks. Only then did some of them notice that he had a cloth covering his left hand, about the size of a large handkerchief or wash cloth. Suddenly, he said a few words (Dominus Vobiscum?) and lifted the cloth up with his right hand to reveal that a globe had magically appeared in his left hand. He had made something appear out of nothing. Can priests be cocky? At least one I know was. The new teacher in front of his first class followed the line of reasoning down to its obvious conclusion. "You believe in God because he made something out of nothing? How about Father Mike Levy?"

As a pretty good basketball player myself, I take a little offense at what always comes next in this story. "For those of you who didn't already know that Father Mike was a magician, you just could look at his basketball teams, with which he also made something out of nothing." Come on, I don't know about the other guys, but I shot 50% from the field. 

But, really, he was a magician. And I came to know him as a mystic. One time, not too long ago, I thought for sure he was sleeping in the chapel after mass because he wouldn't answer any of our questions. And, obviously, WE HAD COME TO VISIT HIM AND WE WERE IMPORTANT. Finally, I asked -- Father, are you praying? And he gently nodded his head. But didn't open his eyes. But he was also a good man. A pastor in the deepest sense; one who cared for his people -- whether a bunch of awkward, confused teenagers, a lively congregation in downtown San Antonio, or the school he ran and the street people of New Orleans he befriended in his years at the Cathedral there. And other folks that he'd met along the way. For many, he became their primary connection to the Good Shepherd, a vocation he took very seriously. 

The First Reading from Daniel for the memorial mass surprised me. Sort of like one of those lines in Shakespeare that can mean two or three things, so you don't fully catch it until it's already passed. The point of the passage is the resurrection of the dead, especially that those who "lead many to righteousness shall be like the stars of heaven." That applied to him, for sure. But the passage actually begins, "At that time there shall arise Michael, the great prince, guardian of your people." I couldn't help wondering if that reading was intentional or just one of those miracles that seem to happen a lot the more you pay attention.  

Michael, the great prince. He was a prince. At least, a member of a royal priesthood. And a disciple. I will always remember him as one who emptied himself not by becoming nothing, but by becoming so much and giving all that knowledge and concern and wisdom and energy away to others. Not by hating this life and waiting impatiently to escape it to a better place. But by loving this life, from basketball practice to running a school to preaching compelling sermons to helping a homeless amnesiac re-discover her identity and re-connect with her family. He loved the gift of his own life, his own energy, his own creativity, and then he used that -- giving it away -- for the sake of others. 

In the liturgy at the mass, we said the following prayer. I wrote it down.

"In this world, Michael shared in the priesthood of Jesus Christ, leading others in prayer and worship. Bring him into your presence where he will take his place in your heavenly liturgy." 

Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer. 

Can you hear me Father Mike? Are you asleep? Or are you praying? OK. I mean, Amen. 

Ben Camino's Non-Ironic Funeral Meditation: A Farmer's Farmer

 Ben Camino's Non-Ironic Funeral Meditation #1: 

A Farmer's Farmer

I went to two funerals last week. One in person, one by distance. One of a farmer, one of a Catholic priest. One was born in 1932, the other was born in 1931. One lived in the same county his entire life, got married at the ripe old age of 17, became a dairy farmer, and, after he dedicated his life to Jesus Christ in 1954, was a lay leader in his beloved Christian & Missionary Alliance Church until the day of his passing. The other spent most of his life in his hometown of New Orleans and his adopted home of San Antonio (a rather limited field of operation, as the memorial homilist said, for a priest in a missionary order), was deeply committed to his church families throughout his life, and fulfilled his lifelong desire of being "a priest of God." 

Because of the strange coincidence of the two funerals of these two men I admire greatly occurring in the same week, I intended to write one meditation about them both. But the more I think about them, and the sheer magnitude of their lives and their influence, I realized that doing so wouldn't be fair to either man. So, here follows my reflections on Roger G. Thompson, "a farmer's farmer" as one speaker called him. And yet he was a man after God's own heart just as surely as any man who ever took ordination vows or wore a clerical collar. 

I know Roger because he is the father of a dear friend. But, come to think of it, I usually don't know the parents of most of my friends. Roger and his bride, Doris, however, had a big farm house off the Warren Road outside of the city of Huntington, Indiana (you're gonna miss it mister, if you don't go slow, I wrote in the song I composed about them). And, when I was invited to share Thanksgiving (and then again Easter) with them a few years ago when I was alone and had nowhere else to go, nobody else to be with, they just welcomed me into the family circle and made me feel like I belonged. 

I got the picture pretty quickly that this family was built pretty strong because it was built pretty deep. And it was pretty pretty too (the girls got that from Doris, if you want to know the truth). Dairy farmers are up working by 3.30, I'm told (glad I don't know from experience), and they don't get time off during "growing season." They work hard. And, with the right farmer, it's a labor of love. 

He loved his cows. He loved his work. He loved his church. And most of all, he loved his family and his Lord. Whether praying the Thanksgiving blessing or sitting in his recliner chair with a great-grandchild in his lap watching the Cubs game, it was clear that he was blessed. And he was a blessing. 

From the pastor to the family to farmer friends to church friends, the speakers at the funeral all had a common theme. He lived like he farmed. He sowed love, and goodness, and mercy (and sometimes a strong sense of justice, even righteous anger as well). And the harvest was great. Children, grandchildren, great-children -- I lost count but was impressed by how many were named by name. But not only his immediate family. A "young man" of 60 spoke of Roger as his father figure, making sure we knew that they didn't always see eye to eye but that Roger never let a difference of opinion come between them in the end. 

The service was perfect, not because it went off without a hitch. It didn't. We were masked, after all. I was standing in the back against the wall because nowhere else looked like it was going to be six feet away from another mourner. The sound system didn't work, or at least the electric keyboard didn't, when it came time to sing the first hymn. Even when it did, our rendition of Roger's favorite song, "Victory in Jesus," would not have reminded anyone of that Utah choir you used to see on television. It was perfect, though, because it was in Roger's home church, with people who loved him, with people he had loved, and with people who "got" him and who knew that he was a saint. 

He was a saint not because he lived above and apart from the everyday and mundane. But because he brought the same love and commitment to his family life, to his farming, to his friendships, that he did to his religion or what he would call his personal relationship with Jesus Christ. He was sowing the seed, taking care of the field of concern his Lord had given him, no matter what he was doing. Work was important. But so was church. And so, especially, was family. His grandson, choking back tears, promised to keep the farm alive in his honor. When things got pretty bad near the end, he came home to the farm, and passed into eternity surrounded by his dear ones.  

Speaker after speaker mentioned his legacy. Without saying it exactly this way, they suggested that they learned what it was to follow Jesus, at least in part, by watching Roger. And following in his big footsteps. Come to think of it, I think somebody did say that almost exactly. His grandson Aaron. 

His grand-daughter Sarah Hofstetter tried to make sense of the beauty of a life she knew that she would now miss for the rest of her life. And wow did she ever do it beautifully. Her words are way better than mine, so I leave you, dear reader, with her tribute to Roger G. Thompson.  

My Grandfather 

A mountain of a man

How does a mountain slip away

How could it go...

Not from memory just from space?

His words were careful and few

He spoke truth 

He was strong and moving as a river 

And twice as deep ran the current of his soul. 

His nod was deepest honor. 

His lap was safest refuge,

Nothing and no one could touch you there. 

His loving smile, bright

Like a butterfly touched gently on my heart 

Where his imprint lies as carved in stone.   

+

Thank you Lord for the promise of eternal life now experienced by your child, Roger Thompson. May perpetual light shine upon him, and may he rest in peace. 

Ben Camino's Not-Very-Ironic 9/11 Meditation (guest meditator, Joe Martyn Ricke)

 Memories of the Fall 2001 

It was just after 7.50 on the morning of September 11th, and I was ducking out of my office to teach an 8 a.m. World Literature Class. It was my second week of teaching at Taylor University, so I occasionally still tried to get to class on time. My office door opened directly out to the desk of our secretary, Rhonda Gretillat, without whom nothing. Rhonda usually had her radio on (it was 2001 folks) and she usually kept us informed about things. I was rushing to class, so it took me a minute to tune in to what she was trying to tell me. 

"One of the World Trade Center towers in New York City just exploded." 

Rhonda knew that I used to live in New York, that I love New York, and that, like most former New Yorkers, I am often talking about New York. Stunned and foggy, I didn't mention the news at all in that early morning class. And believe it or not, students were not all scrolling through their Facebook feeds and Instagram accounts before and during classes back in 2001. Anyway (or anyways, as some of my favorite people say), I didn't want to freak out and then find out later that what sounded like World War III had turned out be an electrical fire. 

Like a lot of people around the world, my colleagues and I spent much of the rest of that day around the radio (or what screens we could find) for further news. I remember the feeling of absolute despair and disgust (a literal emotional "sinking") that came, first, when we heard that the second tower had been hit, and, later, when we heard the incredible, unbelievable news that a tower had collapsed. Collapsed? 

I thought, somewhat selfishly, of one of my favorite spots on earth, one I had treasured from the first day this boy from a little Texas town had hit the Big Apple. Just off the shore of lower Manhattan, gliding back at night towards the city on the Staten Island Ferry, with the proud Towers dominating the skyline. A bright vision. A beautiful dream. 

But the day wasn't over. I had to teach again, unless I was going to cancel my classes (which didn't seem right that day). As a professor in a "Christian college," I thought that I should at least try to relate the horrors of that day to some larger picture, some ultimate story within which it could be framed, if not understood. Even sharing my understanding that it was beyond our understanding might help. 

Most of all, I wanted to help my students connect our experiences that day with the lives and concerns of other people who have faced and still are facing similar trauma. Some people experience something like 9/11 every day. To them, sadly, it's just called life. 

So when I came back to my afternoon World Literature class, I came with the words of C. S. Lewis from a speech, a sermon really, he gave to Oxford students in the early days of World War II, now titled "Learning in War Time." Lewis had seen the Great War from trench-level and from a hospital bed. Now, in 1939, he was addressing his students in the context of the uncertainty of a new war, yet without a name. 

Granting the facts of crisis and tragedy, Lewis points out that if human beings had stopped teaching and studying every time the level of human suffering reached crisis proportions (whether a war or a world-changing terrorist attack), we simply would have shut down all our schools a long time ago. Moreover, if we really could see things as they are, we would realize, as the scriptures and Christian tradition teach, that the world is always at war, that a battle is always pitched, that we are always living in crisis time. 

How dare we, Lewis asks, stop learning (and thinking, marrying, culture building, being human) when an external, physical conflict touches our lives, if, as our religion teaches, a dangerous, terrible (and terror full) spiritual conflict rages around and within us every single day. 

Then, having asked their permission, I went on to talk about World Literature. Specifically, we discussed the amazing fact that, when he finally arrived at the destination of his great Odyssey (his beloved homeland of Ithaca), the great Odysseus, conqueror of Troy, the Cyclops, and pretty much all the known world, was fast asleep. 

Maybe, I thought afterwards, September 11th was a great personal and communal "wake-up call." Not in the jingoistic sense that Americans now would remember that we really are the center of the universe and everybody else better be careful or we will kick their non-American butts (a version heard often on popular radio programs back then). But a call to something higher. To wake up to our lives, to our journeys, to our homes (both here and in our ultimate Ithacas). To the great and awful responsibility we have of living in and caring for this dangerous, beautiful world. To remember that every time we wake up, or every time we walk out of our office door on the way to an early morning class, some miracles and some tragedies are waiting to happen. No, they are happening. People are suffering. Some people are, right now, sacrificing everything for a greater cause, for the good of someone else. To save someone. To rescue someone. Risking everything.

This morning while I'm teaching. Tonight while I am sleeping, some people are finding ultimate meaning on the brink of despair. People are, to put it mildly, reordering their priorities. The call to wake up is also the call to dive in.

One final note. Just around that time in my first semester at that new school, my friend Twyla Lee told me about an alternate route to Upland from my home in Huntington. Instead of driving on I-69 and fighting the Indianapolis traffic through the relative sameness of the Interstate landscape, she said I should try taking County Road 300W/State Road 5, going past the Huntington Landfill, the little Lancaster school and cemetery, Van Buren, Eastbrook school, and lots of farms. "It's all two lane farm roads," she said, "but it's about five miles shorter. And . . . there aren't any police." 

Dear reader, I fell in love with every inch of that stretch of country road the mornings and afternoons after September 11, 2001. I can't describe how comforting and reassuring it was through that traumatic time to drive past school buses on their way to Lancaster or Eastbrook, or to get stuck on that winding rural road behind combines and tractors bringing in that fall's fine harvest. "God and the farmers are on speaking terms, again," I remember saying to my wife, after seeing so many good people bringing in their sheaves one late October day. 

Thanks to that 8 a.m. class, I even got to see the early morning sun rising above the old landfill and the Lancaster cemetery day after day. The old barns, the little dying farm towns, the corn stubble glistening with dew every morning and shining like gold in the late afternoon sun -- these bright things will forever be connected to the dark memories of that autumn. 

I don't think I'm making this up (but you never know I guess), but we all seemed to be waving like neighbors to each other those days, or giving the thumbs up instead of the more offensive digital signal I usually get from other drivers. In slight, almost invisible, ways, we were doing significant healing work. At least that's how I remember it. And felt it. Even rolling down the windows and talking to complete strangers about things I knew nothing about -- like harvesting soybeans or the Eastbrook football team -- took on a deeper meaning. 

Sometimes people in these parts are labeled as narrow-minded. Perhaps a bit stuck in the mud. More than a little old fashioned. Those things looked a lot different to me during the autumn of 2001. It looked to me like people who had taken a big slug in the gut. But who had climbed up out of the ditch to start caring again. After that hard fall, it felt good to be in the heartland.