Sunday Homily, February 15, 2015, 6th Ordinary Time, Cycle B
Readings: (special for Fred)
Isaiah 43, 1-5, Do not be afraid, you are mine
Psalm 32, I turn to you, Lord, in time of trouble, and you fill me with the joy of salvation.
1 Corinthians 13, 1-3, If I have no love, I am nothing.
John 15, 10-11, As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you. Live in my love. I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and you joy may be complete.
Today's readings, observation:
I have chosen all of these readings with the spirit of Fred Macchio and the family in mind.
Fred Macchio
I would like to talk about our dear old friend, Fred. I have two small vignettes and, then, I would like to tell my most favorite Fred story, the pickup story.
First, we have a group of guys who meet every Friday at 1:00 at Jason’s Deli at Collin Creek. The group was christened “Romeo’s” by Mike Moran, though I have gathered this is not an original. Like, try T.I. and Poor Richard’s. Nevertheless, Fred was always with us every week.
When we got together there were two things. First, every time I had to be absent, Fred would tell me that the numbers jumped to a dozen or more.
Secondly, Fred would always find in the Thursday blog I sent out a mistake or two or more. Like, “Hey, you forgot to change the date.” Or “Hey, you misspelled this or that word.” It really became a game for me and I enlisted Rosemary to get rid of mistakes. However, even with her help Fred always caught something. I got better, though, and was ready to wager him. No mistakes, he buys my lunch. A mistake, I buy his lunch. So, you know how he handled that, he checked out on me.
Second, a little fact you all may not know about Fred. He donated his body to Southwestern Medical. I was so impressed that I have started the screening process for myself.
And now the pickup story.
In 1990 I was driving an old Chevy pickup that was a castoff from Jesuit. Trouble was, it was dying. I needed a new ¾ ton to continue my tree planting hobby. I was pulling an 800 gallon water tank to water all summer the new trees.
So I approached my Jesuit community, the other priests, and asked for a new truck. “Sure,” they said, but I had to find the money myself.
Like, where am I going to find some thousands of bucks to buy a new truck? I was, at that time, celebrating a 9:00 and a 10:30 Sunday Mass every week at St. Marks. I had a bunch of friends there.
So, I called the pastor one day and asked if I may contact some of the parishioners who are my special friends. “Yes,” he said somewhat reluctantly if I remember correctly. “But, never, never, never mention this at the Mass or anywhere at any church function where I am the celebrant.” Okay by me. I felt grateful that I got what I got.
So I contact some of these dear friends of mine. And guess who one of these people was. Yes, my buddy Fred.
A week passed. Then another week. On, perhaps the third Sunday after making my calls, I am walking from the main church to the cafetorium, where we had the 10:30 Mass. Suddenly, a woman comes up and gives me a page. I think it might have been Marcia Kolar. I look at it and it says, “Help Stack get his pickup.”
I go in the cafetorium and I find these empty gallon jars that had contained mustard or ketchup. Pasted on the jars, “Help Stack get his pickup.” Jim Herman, who died a few years ago, was the reader that Sunday and he is up at the podium saying the same thing. Wow, I was really getting nervous. We could be in deep doo doo.
I see Fred and ask what does he know about all this. He says cryptically, I will always remember, “It is easier sometimes to apologize after it is done, than to request permission ahead of time.”
Suddenly at that moment, like a clap of thunder in comes the pastor, yelling, “Who did this?” He goes for me and yells that he had told me never. He is yelling and running around trying to take back from people those little pages with “Help Stack get his truck.” It was quite a scene.
He kept yelling and finally I gave a nod to Teresa, she started the music, and I just simply walked away and up the aisle.
After the Mass he was back, saying, “I know who did this,” and yelling at Fred and even Maureen, saying that Fred was going to pay for this.
Sometime later, Fred says to me, “In all my years here, I’ve never seen him go nuclear like that.” Before Christmas that year I was handed enough to pay $15,000 in cash for that truck.
Fred, I never thanked you enough.
