Funeral Homily for Firefighter Terry Tate

by Fr. Jim Schmitmeyer


“There is no greater love than to lay down one’s lives for one friends.”
John 15:14

If you look around enough, you find them.
If you look hard enough, you see them.

You find them camped out in the deserts of Afghanistan
and hold up in cities like Ramadi.

You find them in ER rooms and operating rooms here at home.

You find them amid the flames of flares on the highway,
you catch a glimpse of their faces in the strobe of flashing lights.

I’m talking about heroes.
I’m talking about people like Terry.

They patrol the streets of our city in the dead of night,
they and rescue people from trenches at construction sites,
and pull people from cars
stranded in the rushing waters of swollen creeks.

I’m talking about the heroes and heroines of our society,
people who, day in and day out, put their lives on the line.
People who lay down their lives, not only for their friends
but for their country, their city, their community, their neighbor.

People like Terry.
People like his wife, Cindy.
People like his brother, Tim.

People like so many of you here
who knew Terry and worked with him.
And shared with him the passion to rescue,
to deliver and come to the assistance
of those in need…
not tomorrow, not next week,
but every time the radio crackles and a call comes through.

You look around, you find them.
Heroes.
On the block where you live.
In the parish where you worship.
In the family that you love.

* * *

It’s an honor to know people like Terry.
It’s a privilege to have them
in your family
and down the street
and on your side of town.

* * *

And, speaking of our side of town,
that’s part of what makes the Westside unique, don’t you think?

We have a lot of people like Terry
on our side of town.

You know, whenever people ask me where I’m from
I tell them I’m a pastor of St. Al’s in Bridgetown.

If they’re from the Westside, a smile forms on their face.

If they’re from the East Side,
they back off.

And if they don’t I make sure they understand
that Westside is the best side

That’s because the best collar…is a blue collar.

Now, obviously, good people are found all over the city.
I’m sure the East Side of town has its share of blue collar heroes as well.

But the Westside is known for being blue collar.

And the bluest collar of all
is found on the uniforms of heroes like Terry.

It’s what we’re known for.

And what you’re known for is important.

* * *

Everyone here knows what Terry Tate
was known for.




He was known as a husband and father
who worked hard
and loved Cindy and their children
with all his heart and all his strength.

He was known as someone who gave his all:
EMS coordinator, Golf Outing for the Needy coordinator,
arson investigator, hazardous material handler,
firefighter, organ donor, life saver.

My gosh, he was even getting ready to learn how diffuse bombs
to protect us from the terrorists.

Hero.

That’s the word that describes him best.
Terry is known as a hero.

He grew up here on the Westside, a typical boy
who honored his father and loved his mother
and showed his younger brother the ropes.

Terry was intelligent.
He loved to read, he loved to cook, he loved to sing.

In short, he loved life and lived it as fully as he could.

It’s important… what you’re known for.
And these are just some of the things
Terry was known for.

* * *

Now, as you can tell,
I hold firefighter, police officers and nurses
in high regard.

In some ways, their work is a lot like mine.
They save bodies, I save souls.

And sometimes the two go hand in hand.

Everyone of us here today
know what Terry Tate was known for.

A couple of years ago,
I had the opportunity to ride an Air Care Helicopter.
It wasn’t an emergency run.
I joined the pilot on a refueling run
from University Hospital down to Lunken Field.

It was springtime.
The helicopter glided low across the hills of Clifton
then over the downtown skyscrapers.
The flight was as smooth and gentle
as the graceful curves of the Ohio River.

Cincinnati is such a beautiful city.
And from that distance, all looked peaceful and serene.
Yet, as so many of you here know,
concealed among the trees and hills,
between the houses and in the alleys of our city,
sirens and flashing lights mark places of panic and despair.

And you are the ones who respond.
You are the ones who are sent.

In police cars and ambulances,
helicopters and fire trucks
you seek out the places of pain.
You hurry to do what you’ve been trained to do.

After all, that’s what you’re known for.

And sometimes you arrive in time
and sometimes you arrive too late.

Sometimes a miracle seems to take place,
but other times, no matter how hard you try,
no matter how hard you fight,
life is lost and evil appears to win the day.

Yet, no matter how discouraged you may become,
you continue to respond, don’t you?

Again and again.

It’s what you’re known for.

* * *

Well, I know a Savior who shares the same reputation.
Like an EMT arriving in an ambulance,
like a pilot touching down at the scene of an accident,
he seeks out the pain and heads straight for the trouble.

It’s what he’s known for.

But sometimes, in our eyes, he sometimes arrives too late.

Yet the Divine Responder is the Eternal Responder.

When evil appears to win the day
and tragedy wrecks our lives and destroys our dreams,
he does not fling his helmet to the ground
or collapse the gurney then walk away.

Rather, he remains.

It’s what he’s known for.

He remains.

At our side.
In the darkness of our doubt
Amid the orange flare of our anger.
Amid the sharp sirens of our screams and sorrow.
He remains.

As once he remained on the cross.
To show us that death is not something God desires,
but something God suffers.

And he suffers with us now.

* * *

Last Friday, we lost a hero.
Terry was and will always be a hero.

Christ laid down his life out of love for Terry.

Today, he welcomes him home.

He welcomes home a hero.

The Fourth Sunday of Easter: "Tastes like Heaven"

[Scroll down for current homily: Third Sunday of Easter: "Lovin' Those Chores"]

If heaven were a town,
it’d be my town
on a Sunday evening, 1985.
When everything I wanted was out there awaitin’
and everyone I loved was still alive.

If heaven were a pie, it’d be cherry
so cool and sweet and heavy on the tongue.
And just one bite would satisfy your hunger
and there’d always be enough for everyone.

If heaven were a train it’d be fast one
to take this weary traveler ‘round the bend.
If heaven were a tear, it’d be my last one.
And you’d be in my arms again.

Words from a country song by Andy Griggs.
They’ll strike some of you as comforting,
others as sentimental and homespun.

Yet the impulse to imagine heaven
in colors of the earth
and shades of love and emotion
is as old as the human race itself.

St. John received a spectacular vision of heaven
one Sunday morning on the Isle of Patmos
and we read the opening episodes of that vision
in today’s second reading.

For John, heaven looked a lot like church.
He doesn’t mention hometowns or cherry pie or summer nights
but he does paint a picture of a place
where there’s no more suffering or death
and every tear is wiped away.

It’s impossible for human minds to conceive the details of heaven.
But whether you listen to country music
or read philosophers from Aquinas to Pascal,
it’s easy to conclude that
the hope of heaven
runs so deep that, without it,
the world would be in a terrible shape
and we’d all be less than human.

Think of it this way:

If not for heaven,
your house is your only mansion.

Without heaven,
career advancement becomes your major.

Without heaven,
a Caribbean Cruise could end up being
the most important even of your life.

In short, without heaven
physical realities replace spiritual realities
and the ramifications aren’t pretty.

Without a spiritual dimension,
a marriage license is equivalent to a tax form.

Infatuation gets exalted as the highest form of love.

Compassion and self-sacrifice become the butt
of comedy-hour jokes.

Education has nothing to do with Wisdom.

And art itself functions as a means of confrontation
as opposed to a source of illumination.

Some people think heaven’s a sentimental notion
but without heaven’s light, earth turns mighty dark.
Maybe thinking about heaven in terms of cherry pie
and a summer night in your hometown isn’t as corny as it sounds.

Maybe the hope of heaven is what makes us human.

And maybe that’s why the Church prompts to us to think about heaven
on this Fourth Sunday of Easter

because, when it comes to the Christian faith,
heaven is more than wishful thinking,
it’s the culmination of our belief in the bodily Resurrection of Christ.

Don’t let the skeptics fool you.
And don’t let sentimentality obscure the powerful message
of the Easter Season.

You see, Jesus doesn’t just “live in our hearts,”
he “reigns in highest heaven.”
He broke the chains of death
to fling open the gates of a new creation.

Belief in a life-that-never-ends
isn’t some country singer crooning about cherry pie on a summer night.
Rather, it’s the honest-to-God testimony
of Mary Magdalene, Peter, John, Thomas and others
that what remained of the tortured body of Jesus
was not devoured by a pack of wild dogs!
No. He lives in eternal light
and for one brief moment
they beheld his glory.

It is that glory, and that hope of attaining that glory,
that enables a mother to sit at the bedside of a child with leukemia.

It’s the glory of heaven that emboldens a sergeant
to throw his body atop an enemy grenade
to save the soldiers in his platoon.

It’s the hope in the Resurrection of Christ
that gets a crack addict on his feet in a storefront church
to give testimony and try again.

It’s the vision of what lies ahead
that compels a young woman to join the Peace Corps
in the hope that the hungry will be fed
and the wounded bandaged
and a bit more of the earth’s crust
will resemble the fair and bountiful fields of the Lord.

* * *
So you see,
it doesn’t matter if you think of heaven
in terms of catfish on the line
or saints in white robes waving palm branches in their hands,
the fact that we can’t imagine life without the hope of heaven
means we too have caught a glimpse of God’s glory,
the glory of the Risen Lord himself,
the glory St. John witnessed
on a Sunday morning on the Isle of Patmos
…to the peace of a summer evening in your own hometown where
everything you want is out there awaitin’
and everyone you love… is alive.

The Third Sunday of Easter: "Lovin' Those Chores"

“Peter, do you love me?”

A commentary I read on this scripture passage this past week
took an unexpected turn.[1]

Instead of dealing with the symbolic significance
of the number of fish caught in Peter’s net;
instead of delving into Greek grammar
and the verb tense of words like philia or agape,
the scholar who wrote the article went straight to the heart of the reading
and pulled out that amazing phrase:
“Peter, do you love me?”

The scholar pushed aside his Interlinear Greek Translation of the New Testament
and leaned across his desk and asked a pointed question:

“Do you know how hard it is to ask that question: Do you love me?”

And he’s right.
Most of us, if we happen to be more five years old,
are terrified at the thought of asking such a question.

It is hard enough for some husbands to tell their wives that they’re love.
But that’s nothing compare to asking, “Do you love?”
It’s excruciatingly difficult for most of us to ask, “Do you love me?”

When was the last time you heard a teenager,
struggling so hard to find their way in life,
ask a parent, “Mom…Dad…do you love me?”

Has anyone here ever asked a friend, “Do you love me?”

Have you ever been brave enough
—or desperate enough—
to ask a brother or sister,
“Do you love me?”

Yet, here is the Lord-God-of-Heaven-and-Earth
asking a barrel-chested fisherman
with a thick skull,
impulsive nature
and quick temper,
“Peter, do you love me?”

Amazing, isn’t it?

I can’t imagine the Archbishop of Cincinnati asking me such a question.

Could you imagine your boss asking you that question?
Why, it would go against every rule of professionalism that exists.

Yet, when Jesus asked Peter that question,
it was nothing less than a job description and a performance appraisal
rolled into one.

“If you love me, Peter, then…
feed my lambs,
tend my sheep
look after the flock.”

In our world today
where office cubicles have overtaken
sheep pens and pasture fields,
it’s difficult to connect these two vital components of faith:
loving Christ and serving Christ.

The two go hand-in-hand.
In fact, if we try to compartmentalize our faith life
the way we compartmentalize our work life,
we’ll never make it.
We’ll quite before the job’s completed,
We’ll clock out and blow it off.

Why?
Because we will have not given the Lord the opportunity
to ask us the questions
that Jesus asked Peter.
“Do you love me, Peter?”
And again.
“Do you love me, Peter?”
And yet again.
“Do you love me?”

* * *

I have some friends up in Darke County named Gary and Gretta.
They have a farm and they raise sheep.
A number of years ago I had supper at their house.
We lingered at the table after the meal
but one of the boys, Brad, about ten or twelve years old at the time,
got up to do his chores.

From where I was seated, I could see into the mud room
where he open the closet door where the coveralls hung.
And there, on the inside door of the closet,
was an 8 ½ x 11 picture a religion textbook:
a close-up image of Jesus’ face and beneath it the words:
“Feed my lambs.”

Now, was that ingenious, or what?

I thought back to the all the times I bucked and complained
about doing my chores as a boy.
But at least my parents never put a picture of Jesus
next to my coveralls telling me
to get out to the barn and feed his sheep!

(Then, again, maybe they should have.)

The lesson’s as obvious what takes place
in every house,
every classroom,
every work place
everyday.

It’s as natural
as setting the table,
make a beds
or taking out the garbage:

If we love one another, we do our chores,
we lend a hand.
If we love one another, we pull our weight.

If we love one another, Christ lives in us and we live in him.

And don’t be surprised if someday
the Lord asks you the same question he asked
that barrel-chested, thick-headed fisherman:
“Peter, do you love me?”

Make sure your answer’s as honest as his:
“Yes, Lord. You know I love you.
You know well that I love you.”











[1] Cf. “The Word Embodied” by Fr. John Kavanaugh, SJ at www.liturgy.slu.edu.

Second Sunday of Easter: Branded

[Please send your comments and suggestions on this homily to: jms48@fuse.net]


Back when I was 13 years old,
an impressionable age for a young boy,
there was a TV show I couldn’t wait to watch every week.

Come Tuesday nights, I made sure I had my homework finished,
the stables bedded, the hogs slopped and the calves fed.

I made sure I got to the house to watch “Branded.”

The star of the show was Chuck Connors.
(Anybody here remember it?)

For those too young, let me tell you what you missed.

“Branded” was a story
about US Calvary Captain Jason McCord,
the only survivor of a massacre by the Apache.

He was dishonorably discharged
for abandoning his unit in the time of battle.
Before being discharged, he was whipped.
And he bore the scars of those lashes on his back.
And so he spends the rest of his life
trying to prove he isn't a coward like everyone believes.

It’s a great plot for a TV show,
but a lousy story when it comes to real life.

Unfortunately, it happens a lot.
Getting “branded” happens all the time, doesn’t it?

Not with lashes of a whip,
but by lashes of the tongue.

Somehow, somewhere along the way,
you get a reputation
you pick up name
and, suddenly, you’re branded.

Sometimes, for the rest of your life.

The terrible thing about branding
is that highlights one particular incident
to the exclusion of all others.

And, as I said,
branding occurs all the time.

Not even the saints of the Church
are exempt from the practice.

Consider Thomas, the apostle.

If I were to ask any of us in this church this morning
what word comes to mind to describe the apostle, Thomas,
that word would be “doubt.”

That’s how we know him.
“Doubting Thomas,”
the apostle who doubted the Resurrection of Christ.

It doesn’t matter
that other disciples
also doubted.

It doesn’t matter that they also refused to believe the women
who ran up the steps to the Upper Room
all out of breath and beside themselves
stating that Jesus had risen from the tomb.

It doesn’t matter that other apostles
denied Jesus,
and ducked for cover
and ran like scared rabbits!

Think it through. It’s not fair.
But Thomas’ entire life was forever shadowed
by that one incident.

Gives proof to the old saying that
it takes twenty years to build a reputation
but only two minutes to destroy it.

Ask Thomas, he’ll tell you what it feels like.
He’ll tell you that it doesn’t matter how many times
he walked beside Jesus,
and hung on every word of the Master.

It doesn’t matter that it was him, Thomas,
who, when Jesus set his face toward Jerusalem,
roused the others and said, “Let us go and die with him!”

He’s not remembered for those courageous words

We don’t call him “Courageous Thomas.”
We called him “Doubting Thomas”;
the disciple who found it difficult to believe.

“Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hand;
unless I put my hand into his side,
I will not believe.”

Poor guy.
His legacy fixed for all time
by that one single moment.

* * *

But let’s stop here a minute and ask ourselves a question.
(It’s a silly question but one I’m going to ask anyway):

How does the brand that Thomas wore on his back
compare with that of Chuck Connors’?

Let’s go back to that old TV show for just a minute.

Captain Jason McCord’ brand
was a sign of punishment,
something to live down.
He was branded a coward
so he spent the rest of his life
proving he was anything but a coward.

How does that compare with St. Thomas?

He was branded a doubter.
Yet our tradition holds that he was a believer.

And, according to that tradition,
he went further than any other disciple
in spreading the claim that Jesus rose from the dead.

That’s right!
Peter carried the faith to Rome,
Paul carried it to Athens,
Mark carried it to Egypt
and John carried it to Turkey.
But Thomas, it is said, preached the faith as far away as India.

Maybe his being branded “a doubter”
compelled him to “go the extra mile,” what do you think?

The extra mile to prove, not how much he doubted
but how deeply he believed and continued to believe?

What do you think?

[Now, the way you answer that question
will have a lot to do
with how you yourself respond
to moments of doubt.]

When push comes to shove,
how earnestly do you believe in the power of Christ
to triumph over death?

When depression becomes your constant companion.
When worry keeps you awake at night.

When there are test results waiting at the doctor’s office.
When your teenager has missed curfew and hasn’t called home
and her cell phone is turned off.

How do you respond?
Can you identify with the anguish in Thomas’ words:

“Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hand;
unless I put my hand into his side,
I will not believe.”

If Thomas felt that way, so can I!

If St. Thomas allowed himself to be branded a doubter
I want to say to him,
“Thank you, Thomas!
Thank you for taking that lashing for me.

Because it shows me that the power of the glorified Christ
is stronger than my miserable doubt.

You reached beyond your doubt and found belief.
When I’m in a similar situation,
I hope I have the strength to do the same.”

Thank you, Thomas.
You show us how not to give up.

When push comes to shove,
you tell us to keep on reaching,
keep on straining through the darkness
until, at last, our fingers touch the hand of Christ.

Because, as you show us, Thomas, it’s his hand
and only his hand
that can take us where we need to go.”

* * *
What is it that Thomas noticed about the hand he touched?

It’s not the soft hand of a wise teacher
who has the answer to every question.

It’s not the fast hand of a miracle worker
who makes all the bad things go away.

Rather, it’s the hand of the Savior who laid down his life for you.
A that hand is branded…branded with the mark the nail.

* * *

The next time you find yourself
anxious or afraid or backed in a corner,
the hand that delivers you from darkness
is the one that’s been pierced by the nail.

Easter Sunday: Of Metal and Mystery

When was the last time you bent apart a paper clip?

Where you talking to your mother on the phone?

Where you taking complaints from a customer at work?

When you hung up the phone,
did you try to bend the paper clip back in shape?

Not possible, is it?

Not at this time, but it soon will be.

For the first time in history,
scientists at the University of Illinois
have concocted metals
that snap back to 100% of its original shape
when heat is applied.

Not a big deal when it comes to paperclips,
but a it’d sure come in handy
the next time you haul your car into Schmoe’s.

The process has to do with the chemical properties
inside the steel,
the micro structure of the atoms
which off-set brittleness with the ability to bend.

The new “metal with memory” relies on atom makeup
less than 100 nanometers.
(For comparison, the width of a human hair is about 100,000 nanometers.)

Now, the process I just described for you
is scientific and, therefore, entirely convincing.

But if I were to try to describe to you
the chemical properties of the burst of light
that resulted in the resurrection of Jesus
and the reconstitution of his physical body,
you’d dismiss my explanation out of hand.

And you’d be right in doing so.
I am not a scientist.
I know nothing of chemistry.
I hold no authority when it comes to the physical sciences.

And neither do most of you.

So, why are we here celebrating something as preposterous
as the reconstitution of a physical body after death
and the crazy hope of a meta-physical life
beyond the realm of chemical properties
and subatomic microstructures?

It’s because science isn’t is the only subject
in the curriculum of life.

It’s a incredible field of study.
Science has provided answers to questions
and solutions to problems beyond telling.

But even the most brilliant of scientists agree
that we only know a fraction of a percent
of the knowledge of the universe.

In other words,
the physical, chemical, scientific approach
to understanding the meaning and power of Christ’s Resurrection from the dead
is a little bit like ants trying to figure out the Internet.

My point here is that life in God
is a mystery to be lived,
not a problem to be solved.

This approach to religion
makes all the difference.

It’s not like the question,
“What’s the cure for cancer?”
Well, that’s a problem to be solved.

But what about the question,
“Will I live forever?”

Now, that’s not a problem to solve,
that’s a mystery to embrace.

You might spend a good portion of your life
talking on the phone and bending paperclips,
but the important questions aren’t going to go away!

Questions like:

Does God exists?
Is there meaning to life?
Does morality matter?

Why do fools fall in love?
Why do I like to dance?
What makes me want to sing?
Why does nobility inspire?

Where does gratitude come from?
And why is gratitude so important, anyway?

These questions have no definitive answer
but, guess what?

They never go away.

Like paperclips in a drawer,
there’s always one lying around somewhere.

We live with these questions
but we don’t answer them with words and formulas.

Rather, respond to these questions
by the way we live our lives.

When it comes to the meaning of life,
who cares if we can manufacture metal with memory?

It might come in handy when it comes to a fender bender.

But when it comes to choosing the right name
for your newborn daughter?

Well, now, that’s a different matter.
Because she is yours and she is beautiful
and she is unique in all the world.

When it comes to the mystery of life
it’s faith, not science, that matters.

When it comes to a boy named Jacob Grayson,
the lad being baptized here tonight
it’s the shape of the Gospel
that will pattern his life.

Yes, tonight he’s but a boy,
but when it comes to the kind of life that he will live
and the contribution will make to the world around him,
and the love that will flow from him
and the sorrows that will confront him
when it comes down to what’s important in his life,
it’s the mystery of God, not chemical reactions that matter.

Don’t get me wrong,
I think it’s great that chemical engineers
can now create metal with memory.

But a deeper memory is far more important to me.
It’s the memory in which I live.
The memory handed on to me by my parents.
The memory safeguarded by the Church
and preserved in the sacraments that we celebrate
and the creeds we recite,
as when we proclaim in one voice:

We believe in the Holy Spirit…,
the resurrection of the body
and life everlasting. Amen.

This is the faith of the Church,
the deep memory in which you and I live:

the memory of a Savior who broke the chains of death
and conveyed to us the truth
that God has carved our names
on the palm of his hand.

That’s true for me and that’s true for you.

It’s the reason we sing.
It’s the reason we hope.

It’s the faith we hold,
the mystery we live.

[For further reading: “God Debate: Sam Harris vs. Rick Warren,” “Rabbi Gellman on Whether God is Real” and “Metals with Memory” all on www.MSNC.com]

Holy Thursday: He Takes Away the Gun

Do any of you have friends or family in Columbus, Ohio?

Do any of them attend St. Dominic Church?

If so, you might want to ask them
what they thought
about a very unusual thing they got to experience at a Sunday Mass
back in February.

But first, let me give you some background.

Last fall the pastor of St. Dominic, Fr. Jim Colopy,
was car-jacked in the rectory driveway
as he returned from a wedding rehearsal dinner.
A 17-year-old kid named Perry Ellis
put a BB gun to the priest’s head
and demanded the car keys.

Unfortunately for them
the car had a standard transmission
and they couldn’t drive a stick.
As they struggled to get it in gear,
the priest called the cops
and three teenagers were arrested minutes later.

(When I read this, I thought to myself:
“Another good reason to drive a truck.”)

Anyway, the priest was furious.
And, along with him, the entire parish.
It scared and angered the whole neighborhood.

But it also did something else.

It sparked conversations about forgiveness.

When the teenagers appeared in court,
somber and remorseful,
Fr. Colopy’s anger dissipated.
He urged the judge to make the boys do work for the church
and issue an apology in front of the congregation.

And that’s what the people of St. Dominic Parish in Columbus, Ohio
got to experience at Sunday Mass a few weeks ago.

“I apologize for putting fear in your hearts
and for disrespecting the church community,”
the offender said.

Then he thanked the priest for his lenient recommendation
to the juvenile court and the two shook hands.

The sentence the judge gave them actually went beyond what the pastor recommended.
Yes, they performed 80 hours of community work for St. Dominic’s:
shoveling walks, cleaning the school and working at a soup kitchen on the south side.

The judge paired them with parish members as mentors to guide them.
She also required them to talk to parishioners one-on-one.

Tonight, we celebrate the Last Supper of our Lord and Savior.

In a few moments, we’ll re-enact the unusual thing that occurred
in the course of that supper
when the disciples removed their sandals and allowed Jesus to wash their feet.

You see, the heart of the Mass is the heart of God’s forgiveness.
Recall the sacred words:
“This is the cup of my blood;
it will be shed for you and for all
so that sins may be forgiven.”

The people of St. Dominic’s know the meaning of words.
They could have had those kids locked up.
Instead, they invited them into their life,
asked them to walk in their shoes.

In doing so, those kids learned the meaning of forgiveness.

Tonight, like the apostles, we take off our shoes.
Not for Lord to walk in our sandals
but to wash our feet.

Each one of us, in some way or another,
resemble those kids.

We’ve made mistakes.

Our words have robbed others of their respect.

Our greed has taken what rightly belongs to others.

Our actions have aroused fear.

Yet, for the likes of us, the Lord poured his life;
for the likes of us, he poured out his blood:

“So that sins may be forgiven.”

Unusual as it might seem,
this is what happens, not only at St. Dominic’s,
at and every Mass:

He takes away the gun,
stoops to wash our feet…
and wipes the record clean.