Capitalism requires a sort of mutual reciprocity. The type of love is called Philos in Greek: it’s a love interwoven with a common goal. Hence, my name Phillip is from Philos Hippo, lover of horses. This is not the type of love which will necessarily end in physical union, though the ancient Greeks were known for their quirkiness, but it is the love of comrades engaged in a task. Thus, the human feeds the horse and the horse offers transportation to the human. Some goals are limited in scope and once the goal is reached, the relationship can be terminated. For example, I go to a restaurant, I want dinner, and those on the other end of the relationship want my money. I love the restaurant in that itÕs a place I can go and enjoy myself, and the restaurant loves me in that I am a paying customer. We serve each otherÕs needs and move on with life. Of course, from time to time relationships break down, especially capitalism.

I was eating with Rebecca at CopelandÕs Famous New Orleans Restaurant. I have never had a good meal there, but this isnÕt a restaurant review. It just so happened that my excursion into the prize box at work got me a $25 gift certificate there this time, and Rebecca had just landed a job she wanted badly enough so as to turn down a job that she hated which would have paid twice as much. So I took her out as a celebration, on my dime. Well, on the company dime. Actually, she ended up paying the tip–but whoÕs keeping tab?

We sat down to enjoy our meal and ordered. Just as our food came, the lady sitting across from me got up and came over, gave us look that was as blank as a zombie’s, her eyes at half-mast and mouth slightly agape. After a moment she walked on. Now, CopelandÕs is not the most exclusive restaurant, but this woman looked like she had spent the vast majority of her life in an undersized trailer with an oversized family. But, apart from chastising myself for being so judgmental, I gave the incident little thought. Our meal progressed. They left the bacon off my burger, but RebeccaÕs catfish came out in huge helpings to make up for it.

As we were stuffing the last amounts into our mouths, I saw someone run past the window. I just caught it out of the corner of my eye and turned to see the waitress glance out too. She got a peculiar smile on her face and then ran toward the door. After that, a few back-of-the-house employees came walking past the window outside, looking intently, their faces a mix of jest and anger. I assumed I was witnessing some sort of restaurant antics.

I remembered my days as a grill cook, a job of which I was very fond, and remember with an all-too-positive bias. One evening when I was on the grill and business was slow I heard a tremendous crash and several plastic cups came tumbling around the corner, quickly followed by a rather slow-witted dishwasher. He was followed by a frontline server with a damp towel in his hand, wrung into a whip. They chased each other on and off all night. After close we were all in the parking lot and the slow-witted dishwasher came out and started walking straight to the frontline server who was standing next to me. ÒI got your ass now,Ó he said, seeing him defenseless. Just as the dishwasher reached him the frontline server pulled a damp towel from a tucked position under his armpit and whipped him right in the gut, and proceeded to chase him around the parking lot whipping the ground for a firecracker like effect.

As we were preparing to leave Rebecca went to the powder room as I waited at the table. At the table next to me a cop sat down with one of the servers. ÒSo what happened?Ó

ÒI saw it coming, it was a classic walk out. The woman got up and left and the guy went to the bathroom, but he left his hat and glasses. When he came back to get them I asked him to please pay. He asked if he could work it off, but I told him he either had to pay or go to jail. We argued and he pushed me out of the way and ran out the door. I chased him down and tackled him but my manager told me to let him go, he didnÕt want the liability. So I just ran after him till I saw you.Ó

ÒHow much was the bill?Ó

ÒEighty five dollars. Can you imagine going to jail over eighty-five dollars?Ó

I could not. We gathered our things and left, noticing the lady in the back of the cop car on the way out. It is always sad when the system breaks down, for whatever reason.

Contrary to the Philos model is the Agape type of Love, which entails the lover and the beloved. The lover only desires to pour out goodness to the beloved. If the beloved is also a lover, in the Agape sense, toward the lover, the relationship that ensues is one of the more beautiful types. This is the model that the Christian community is called to live, member to member as well as institution to member. One problem today is that some people see the church under the Philos model, as an institution to be dealt with, as opposed to the Agape model, as something to which to give your all, and which gives its all to you. In Catholicism, one might go to church expecting that, in exchange for showing up they are entitled to receive the sacraments. The institution expects those who show up to pay for the services rendered through Òtime, talent and treasureÓ and a little more treasure wouldnÕt hurt. One would hope for a more interactive model.

I was meditating on these things as mass started the other day, and how the Philos model would apply to the homily. The priest hopes that those who come will be inspired enough to return, and become active members of the community, and the congregation hopes that what is said from the pulpit will inspire them to live their lives with meaning and trust in the almighty, or will at least not be the all-time cure for insomnia. Given the state of homiletics these days, both sides are likely to be disappointed, resulting in a mutual dine and dash. Neither side gets what it wants and respectively gives up on the other side.

I decided that there needed to be a way to remedy this situation. It appears to me that no one is even teaching the rudamenteries of speech making to these poor priests. (Have they never heard of a thesis?) Thus was born The Counter Homily Initiative, to aid the priest in ascertaining what the people want. Of course there are the regulars who go up to Fr. Joe Shmoe and tell him what they think of his homily, but my plan was more grass roots. I decided that I could make a form to be filled out in ten minutes for any given mass and e-mailed to the presider. It would include the time and presider of the mass, his strong points in the homily, weak points, suggested alternate topics relating to the readings, and questions regarding the homily. It would help the priest by giving him constructive criticism from those to whom it mattered most. It would help the congregation in that it would force them to pay attention and, even if they didnÕt like the priestÕs agenda, make them take home a positive thing they learned from the homily.

I mulled over how I could start doing this by myself and spread the word through various ways and means, including the Internet, bulletin and church socials. I figured in my wildest dreams that even the priests themselves, delighted to find out that someone was actually listening, might take heart and pass on the proper documentation. Then I envisioned the form evolving into true counter-homilies where people were allowed to stand up in mass and give opinions on the priestÕs strong and weak points. The vision of myself standing on a very tall pulpit totally tearing down a preist for his lack of focus, doctrinal soundness and poor exercise in diction came very clearly to me.

I was thinking all this through during the Eucharistic Prayer when we proclaimed Òthis mystery of our faith.Ó ÒChrist has died, Christ has risen, Christ will come again.Ó It is sung to the same tune as the amen at the end of the Eucharistic Prayer and I was off in a daze. Then a chain reaction began that showed me that perhaps I too had succumbed to the mutual dine and dash. The poor teenager who was sitting in the front row stood up, not being able to see that all those behind him remained kneeling. Then that guy who came in a little late, and looked like he didnÕt really know what was going on anyway, slowly rose. Following him within a second was a very old man who is at mass every Sunday. The primitive functions of my brain, working on auto pilot while the Counter Homily Initiative was occupying the conscious cerebral functions, took in the tune, though not the words, and saw the others standing on the periphery of visual sensation. Taking this information it acted quickly, bolted my knees up and I stood. The movement jolted my conscious brain back into sense gathering mode and I quickly took stock of my surrounding. Almost everyone around me was kneeling. Only a few other people were standing and even the old man was heading south having already figured out the shamefulness of his action. I looked at the kid with scorn as I kneeled back down, blaming my lack of attention on him. It seemed I was on the dash from my end of the spectrum.

The next day at work I wrote up a template for the Counter Homily Initiative and began my research. Since they were not in the bulletin, it would only be a matter now of looking up the e-mail addressees on the Internet and then I could begin. I went over to the parish site and found no luck. Then I pulled on over to the archdiocese site and was expecting to find a list of priests for the archdiocese, but there was no such thing. After much searching (even leading to the Vatican site) I gave up. How can you contact people who donÕt want to be found? Given the recent scandals, I can see how priests may be guarded about their information, but if they maintain a fortress mentality, how can they effectively Òpastor their flock?Ó It seems I’m not the only one on the dash after all.

Phillip (lover of horses) G.

Literature