“Dead men will have indeed died in vain if live men refuse to look at them.”           Life Magazine  May 7, 1945

I have been watching the nations of the world as they hear the hate speech pouring out of Iran toward Israel. Consider the following statements by Iran’s president, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad:

1. Israel should be “wiped out from the map”
2.  ”And God willing, with the force of God behind it, we shall soon experience a world without the United States and Zionism,”
3. “Anybody who recognizes Israel will burn in the fire of the Islamic nation’s fury.”
4. On Israel’s 60th birthday, Ahmadinejad gave a speech, in which he stated: “Those who think they can revive the stinking corpse of the usurping and fake Israeli regime by throwing a birthday party are seriously mistaken. Today the reason for the Zionist regime’s existence is questioned, and this regime is on its way to annihilation.”
5. “Today, they have created a myth in the name of Holocaust and consider it to be above God, religion and the prophets …”
6. “With God’s help, the countdown button for the destruction of the Zionist regime has been pushed by the hands of the children of Lebanon and Palestine . . . By God’s will, we will witness the destruction of this regime in the near future.”

This is a very small snapshot of some of the statements made by Iran’s president about Israel. Anyone can google this and see it. I invite the reader to do their own research on this topic, and read these words for what they are.

I find it shocking that the world essentially turns a blind eye to this blatant hate speech that calls for the destruction of a specific nation repeatedly. This level of Anti-Semitism exceeds that of the Final Solution of Nazi Germany. It is no secret that the Arab world as a whole does not welcome the nation of Israel, and Ahmadinejad’s hateful sentiments are shared by many other nations that are not willing to vocalize it. How would we respond if Mexico repeatedly and forcefully called for our doom, questioned our legitimacy as a nation, and went about building a nuclear arsenal? Would we be as quiet? Would we ignore it?

Why is the world silent as a second holocaust is championed by the President of a growing world power? How can we sit by as Iran publicly longs for the extinction of Israel, while it concurrently sets its hand to developing nuclear power for “peaceful purposes”? Why is Iran given a free pass, when the Western nations decry the first holocaust and build museums and whisper “never forget” with candles and moist eyes?

There is a blindness toward this new Anti-Semitism, and a complete inability to connect the dots to see that this religiously motivated hatred is more dangerous than Hitler’s Final Solution. We must speak out against this blindness, lest we be guilty of allowing a world in which a second holocaust is possible. All of us need to strengthen the hands of President Obama and our leaders in congress to stand against this revived Monster of Anti-Semitism. But more than that, we need to pray that God would open the eyes of the blind. Let them see that not only was there a first holocaust, it was preceded by precisely this same kind of Hate Speech.

And it was ignored. Just like today.

It is very easy to see miracles and relegate them to commonplace status.  It is the unfortunate and frustrating bend of the human race to devour the kindness, wonder, mercy, beauty and grace that are daily delivered by the Finger of God, and neglect to return thanks to Him.  The story that Luke tells of Jesus healing the 10 lepers is a case in point.  10 men healed of a horrendous, disfiguring disease, and only one  coming back to the Healer and saying thank you.   May we all find it within ourselves to have humble and thankful hearts, and recognize that  “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.”

I would like to take a moment to give thanks and testify to the absolutely astonishing and wonderful experience I have had over the last five years.  As many of you know, Julie and I decided in 2004 to send our three oldest children to Immaculate Heart Central.   This is the Roman Catholic school here in the Watertown area.  This decision was not made quickly, lightly, easily or prayerlessly.  We labored over it, and enrolled our children at IHC with no guarantee of success.  This may sound strange to you, but many voices whispered that we were making a horrible mistake.   “What’s the matter with you Brennans?  Don’t you know that Protestants shouldn’t attend a Catholic school?”   Needless to say, we knew we were taking the path less travelled.  I am not by nature a pioneer, but God has a way of forcing us Bilbo Baggins-types into adventures that we never would have chosen for ourselves.  And the results are glorious when it is His Will.

Over the past five years, my children have driven to IHC every day.   They have been challenged academically every day.  They have been prayed for every day.  They have eaten in the cafeteria every day.  They have made friends, laughed, and sang.  They have wept as they recalled the death, burial and resurrection of Jesus Christ through Mystery Players.  They have been asked to provide the music for Mass and many other events.  They have gone to prom and homecoming, and football games and Right to Life events and raised money for Darfur.  They have been challenged mentally, spiritually, socially, and physically.  I cannot do justice to the experience by merely listing the things that have happened.  This has been a whole life experience for our entire family, and we are better for it.

I have saved the best for last.  The most unexpected part of the IHC experience was the deep and transforming connection we have made with the Catholic community.  I have developed a very real and precious friendship with Father Mark Reilly, pastor of IHC.  He has been a true pastor, friend, mentor and teacher to me, my wife and my children.  He has visited our home, prayed for me when I was diagnosed with congestive heart failure, encouraged us, and been avaialable for counsel and conversation.  He is a wonderful brother in Christ, and man of God.  He has no idea of the impact he  is making on many lives.  Pat Fontana Sr. runs the school with unmatched competence, dedication, and love.  His passion for providing an excellent Catholic/Christian education is seen in every aspect of the school.  I am impressed by his professionalism at every level.  He is one of those rare souls you meet that is operating at peak capacity in his calling.  He is like a Swiss watch as Principal of IHC.  Then there are the teachers; Pat Fontana Jr. – the best math teacher on the planet, Miss Barden – made my daughters LOVE French, Mrs. Percy made Katie want to be an English teacher, Mrs. Biedekap, Mr. Burns, and everyone else.  They have had a wonderful effect on my children.  Mr Delaney has earned my respect and gratitude for his concern and professionalism as we transitioned to IHC in August of 2004.  His input and assistance were of great and lasting value.  He went above and beyond what we expected.  He made our family a priority when he was also managing the guidance and coaching responsibilities at IHC.  Simply amazing.  Lastly and perhaps most importantly The IHC community of families has accepted us, and made us one of their own.  The Elliotts, LaFaves, Piarullis, Grants, and other families have opened their hearts to us and ours to them.  We are profoundly grateful for the new relationships that we have found at IHC. 

I am already at 854 words, and I am nowhere near expressing what I really feel, but I must summarize lest this entry go Tolstoy.   Our time at IHC has brought us closer to the Catholic community, and has perhaps helped to bridge the gap between the Protestant and Catholic communities.  I know that the Brennans are richer for having spent the last five years at IHC.  It is my hope that we have been able to enrich the IHC community in some small way as well.    To all my readers:  The Body of Christ is richer, more effective, more powerful, more persuasive, smarter, and more compassionate when we open our hearts to others of different traditions of Faith. 

 John 17:20-23

This was sent to me via e-mail 8 years ago by my friend, Mike Hensley.   I was moved deeply by the thoughts about disabled persons and God’s plan.  Please take the time to read this.  It is profound.

Where is God’s Perfection?

In Brooklyn, New York, Chush is a school that caters to learning disabled children. Some children remain in Chush for their entire school career, while others can be mainstreamed into conventional schools.

At a Chush fund-raising dinner, the father of a Chush child delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who attended.

After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he cried out, “Where is the perfection in my son Shaya? Everything God does is done with perfection. But my child cannot understand things as other children do. My child cannot remember facts and figures as other children do. Where is God’s perfection?”

The audience was shocked by the question, pained by the father’s anguish, stilled by the piercing query.

” I believe,” the father answered, “that when God brings a child like this into the world, the perfection that he seeks is in the way people react to this child.”

He then told the following story about his son Shaya:

One afternoon Shaya and his father walked past a park where some boys Shaya knew were playing baseball. 

Shaya asked, “Do you think they will let me play?”

Shaya’s father knew that his son was not at all athletic and that most boys would not want him on their team. But Shaya’s father understood that if his son was chosen to play it would give him a comfortable sense of belonging.
Shaya’s father approached one of the boys in the field and asked if Shaya could play. The boy looked around for guidance from his teammates. Getting none, he took matters into his own hands and said “We are losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we’ll try to put him up to bat in the ninth inning.”

Shaya’s father was ecstatic as Shaya smiled broadly. Shaya was told to put on a glove and go out to play short center field.

In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shaya’s team scored a few runs but was still behind by three. In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shaya’s team scored again and now with two outs and the bases loaded with the potential winning run on base, Shaya was scheduled to be up. Would the team actually let Shaya bat at this juncture and give away their chance to win the game? Surpassingly, Shaya was given the bat.

Everyone knew that it was all but impossible because Shaya didn’t even know how to hold the bat properly, let alone hit with it. However as Shaya stepped up to the plate, the pitcher moved a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shaya should at least be able to make contact.

The first pitch came in and Shaya swung clumsily and missed. One of Shaya’s teammates came up to Shaya and together the held the bat and faced the pitcher waiting for the next pitch. The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly toward Shaya. As the pitch came in, Shaya and his teammate swung at the bat and together they hit a slow ground ball to the pitcher.

The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could easily have thrown the ball to the first baseman. Shaya would have been out and that would have ended the game. Instead, the pitcher took the ball and threw it on a high arc to right field, far beyond reach of the first baseman.

Everyone started yelling,”Shaya, run to first. Run to first.” Never in his life had Shaya run to first. He scampered down the baseline wide-eyed and startled. By the time he reached first base, the right fielder had the ball. He could have thrown the ball to the second baseman who would tag out Shaya, who was still running. But the right fielder understood what the pitcher’s intentions were, so he threw the ball high and far over the third baseman’s head. Everyone yelled, “Run to second, run to second.” Shaya ran towards second base as the runners ahead of him deliriously circled the bases towards home. As Shaya reached second base, the opposing short stop ran to him, turned him in the direction of third base and shouted, “Run to third.” As Shaya rounded third, the boys from both teams ran behind him screaming, “Shaya run home.”

Shaya ran home, stepped on home plate and all 18 boys lifted him on their shoulders and made him the hero, as he had just hit a “grand slam” and won the game for his team.

“That day,” said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, “those 18 boys reached their level of God’s perfection.”

There are many ways to look at any given situation, and there are many ways to look at a particular person.  We are always influenced by our own position, background, history, relationships, and our own personality. Such is the condition of the human race.

I could talk about my father, Don Brennan as National Accounts Manager at Westvaco, I could discuss his service as a Flight Engineer in the Naval Air Corps, I could talk about him as the husband of  Ginger, I could talk about his beloved role as Cat owner/Cat Lover of Jessica, Tipper, and Phoebe, I could discuss his intellectualism, or love of hockey.  All of these were part of who Don Brennan was, and each of them would require a rather lengthy, detailed narrative.  Fortunately for you all, I am not going to do that.  First of all, it would take too long, second of all, he didn’t want any kind of memorial at all, so we are being naughty in the first place to even remember him.  But a life like his is worthy of honor, and remembrance of him is the right thing to do, no matter what he may have thought.  Besides, what’s he going to do to stop us?  So here we are, Dad.  Remembering you whether you like it or not.  You’ll be fine.

I will talk about Don Brennan as my Dad.  My Dad was a manly man, in the classic sense.  He was old school, yet very progressive.  He was vintage, yet contemporary. And he was intellectual, but had a sparkling sense of humor.  There were a lot of facets to who my Dad was, and some seeming paradoxes.  But the whole package was impressive.

 I remember being proud of my Dad’s big arms when I was little, and I was aware that he was a very good looking guy.  He was always athletic, and that made me proud.  He made sure that I learned to swim (very well I might add), and that we had a pool in the backyard.   He made sure that we had a hockey rink in the backyard (it was a big yard), and I learned to play hockey and played in the Southfield Hockey league.  I saw him at nearly every game I played, even though I was a *gasp* third liner.  He made sure I learned to golf, and he, my brother Mike, and I played many spirited rounds of golf on a number of different courses.  I lost every time, but I loved it.

I remember going to a number of Detroit Red Wings games at the old Olympia Stadium in Detroit, back when the Red Wings were called the Dead Things, and they were usually awful.  But what wonderful memories of Hot Dogs, Bud Lynch, and amazing Hockey atmosphere.  My Dad loved the game, and I am a rabid Red Wings fan to this day.  So are his grandchildren.  I remember when the Wings won the Stanley Cup in 1997, thus ending a 42 year drought of championships, and my Dad and I practically wept with pride over the phone.  We shared that.

I remember him as the lawgiver in our home.  And with five kids growing up in one house, the need for order was strong.  It became a joke with us kids about what Dad would say: “you diddle around and you screw around, and sooner or later someone gets hurt or something gets broken”.  Spoken like a true father.  And also a prophet, because someone usually did get hurt, and something usually did get broken.  Fortunately, it wasn’t usually life threatening. 

The other notable feature of our home was a sense of humor.  My dad had the best sense of  humor of anyone I ever met, and he could crack us all up.  We laughed a lot in our house, and all of us kids picked up what I call the Brennan sense of humor.  Somewhat askew, not too highbrow, not too lowbrow.  The Three Stooges and Wile E. Coyote made him crack up, but so did Peter Sellers, Bill Cosby and Bob Newhart.  He was very eclectic in his tastes, even in humor.  He was never a knee-jerk reactionary to new ideas.  He considered other opinions, and gave them real consideration.

Music was another of his loves.  I remember having everything from Henry Mancini, to Herb Alpert, to Tchaikovsky, to the Ventures in our home.  These were LP records – made of vinyl, and spun on a turntable, and made audible with a diamond chip.  I remember him showing me the 1812 Overture when I was about 12, and teaching me what the different themes meant, and the cannons at the end.  He taught me to close my eyes and listen.  I still do this to this day.  I listen to every genre of music, and trawl for good stuff, like my Dad did.  If something is good, the style is secondary.  Good music transcends genre, and touches the heart.  I learned that from my Dad.

As I got older, I spoke with my Dad about philosophy and religion.  He was remarkably sophisticated on these subjects, and very knowledgeable about the Bible, as well as the writings of Augustine, St. Francis and others.  We had some very deep talks, and it was clear to me that there were many subjects that we touched only briefly, that he had considered in vast depth.  I was named after a priest – Thomas Matthew McEnoy, and my Dad’s spiritual side was always apparent to me.  It was as much a part of what he was as anything else.

I must summarize, but this is impossible.  I miss my father profoundly, and his perspective, wisdom and rational outlook with a spiritual twist.  There will never be another Don Brennan, and we rejoice that we knew Him.  Our lives are all richer for having been close to him.  Now, it is upon us to take the influence that we received from him, and make our own sphere of influence better. 

God Bless you Dad,  we love you.

I actually posted this as a comment on Christopher Hopper’s blog, but since some of you may not see it, I thought it would be some good food for thought for those of us that are fathers of little men.

When I first became a father, and brought my firstborn son John home from the hospital, the thought that hit me was “what do I do now?”  I still ask that question daily. Each child is a very unique critter, and one size doesn’t fit all.

I read this poem sometime during my 16 year tenure as a Royal Ranger leader. I share it with you in hopes that it will bless you all as it blessed me.

I may never be as clever as my neighbor down the street.
I may never be as wealthy as some other men I meet;
I may never have the glory some other men have had;
But I’ve got to be successful as a little fellow’s dad.

There are certain dreams I cherish that I like to see come true,
There are things I would accomplish ere my working time is through,
But the task my heart is set upon is to guide a little lad.
And make myself successful as the little fellow’s dad.

It’s that one job I dream of, it’s task I think of most,
If I’d fail that growing youngster; I’d nothing else to boast.
For though wealth and fame I’d gather all my future would be sad,
If I failed to be successful as that little fellow’s dad.

I may never get earth’s glory, I may never gather earth’s gold.
Men may count me as a failure, When my business life is told.
But if he who follows after is a Christian, I’ll be glad–
For I’ll know I’ve been successful as a little fellow’s dad.

Author Unknown.

The same is true of our little girls, but I have no poem for that. See my blog – upon a daughter leaving for college for some thoughts about that.

Big Daddy Tom

I know this is hard to watch, but we need to remember, lest we forget……

I think all of us Americans need to see this again.  We have forgotten the lessons of 9/11, and have failed to understand the threat that radical Islam poses to us, as well as Europe.   The answer is not hatred.  That is what the terrorists are dealing in.  The answer is found in the example of Jesus Christ.   May we learn to love our neighbors, and those who despitefully use us as He did.   Muslims need the love of Jesus too.  How can they see His love, if all Chrsitians do is hate them?  Jesus showed us the way.  Remember that Paul was once called Saul, and killed Christians.   Converted Muslims are some of the strongest Christians you will ever find.   They need to know that they don’t need to kill people and themselves to please God.  Rather, God gave His own Son’s life so we could know God’s favor. 

I have recently been thinking upon the human condition.  We are mortal.  This means we will all leave this planet.  This is almost always involuntary, and we cannot avoid it.  We can only delay it, at best.   I believe that the biggest fear we face is the fear of being alone.  Death is experienced alone, and is irreversible.   We all want to avoid it, but none of us will.  Add to this the fear of the unknown, and we can easily understand why we don’t want to think about it.  As Woody Allen said “it’s not that I am afraid to die, I just don’t want to be there when it happens”.   I wish it were that easy.

Anyway, the point I want to get at is this: the thing that gives our lives meaning, purpose and joy is our relationships.  If these are healthy, our lives are full and meaningful.  Our relationships will also come to an end, like our lives.  This is the primary cause of man’s insecurity in this life.  All of our relationships will come to an end, either by sin, or by death, except one.  Our relationship to God will never be taken away.   This is why we are at our best when we seek His face and obey what we know His will to be.   Our hearts are drawn to our Father, for it is in Him that our lives originate, and ultimately depend.  It is also through Him that we hope to see our loved ones in the next life.   Christ answers the deepest needs of the hearts of men and women and children.

Nothing prepared me for the onslaught of conficting feelings I have felt the last couple of days.  My 18 year old daughter Elisabeth is now a freshman at a university, and I dropped her off yesterday with my wife and two of my children.  I am sure that this is a great thing for her to do, and I am very proud that she was able to be accepted to this school.  I am happy for her, as I know she will grow a lot,  and God’s blessing is upon her.  I have always feared this day. 

I remember watching Father of the Bride with Steve Martin back in 1994.  I was a basket case as I identified with Martin’s character whose daughter was getting married and moving away.  My daughter was five at the time.  I figured I would deal with the pain later, when she was ready, and I reasoned that I would be too.

But a funny thing happened in the last thirteen years.  I spent hours upon hours with my daughter.  Going to school concerts, eating around the table, praying at bedtime, driving her to school, picking her up from school, and a myriad of trivial, mundane, unimportant tasks and responsibilities that are mostly forgotten.  Until now.  Now these little forgotten moments have taken on the breathtaking beauty of a golden sunset over a golf course,  and every word, joke, laugh (especially laugh), song and nuance is remembered and treasured in a way that never seemed possible. 

How did I ever come to this day so unprepared?  How do I respond?  The choices are few.   1.  Don’t think about it too much and keep your composure, or 2.  think about it a lot and let your heart savor the sweet pain that can only be felt by a very involved, loving parent who is now without the daily banter of their very beloved child.  I alternate between the two.  Right now I am wiping away the tears as I indulge option number 2.

Anyway, the only possible advice I can give to you parents who have yet to be in my shoes, I offer but one bit of advice.   Suck the juice out of every second that God gives you with your family.  It is unspeakably precious, and the clock will not be rewound for any of us.  Take your kids out to dinner often.  Get inside their thoughts.   Never waste time fretting about stupid stuff that won’t matter anyway.   Realize that every day, hour, minute, and second with a loved one is a gift.

There will be more on this topic, I am sure.