Beloved,

It is finally happening.

Whenever Fr. Roger, Beau, and I are on the road, I always turn the radio to Escape. It’s a station that plays so-called elevator music—or, as some might call it, old people music—all day long. No vocals, no head-banging, no booming bass; just soothing music filling the space.

One day, I caught myself absentmindedly bobbing my head to a song that sounded oddly familiar. Curious, I glanced at the infotainment screen to see the title.

“No way!”

I nearly gasped.

It was Madonna’s 1986 hit, “Papa Don’t Preach,” masterfully transformed into elevator music by a xylophone and flute. There it was, comfortably mingling with all the other easy-listening tunes. Had Madonna approved this, I wondered? Then it hit me: I am beginning to realize that I am no longer in my twenties.

When I look at old photographs—even ones from only a few years ago—I notice the changes. There is less hair on top, more white in my beard, and a few dark spots that were not there before. Others noticed them long before I did, but I am only now beginning to see them myself.

I am sure I am neither the first nor the last to experience this. No wonder I have been feeling a shift in my vocational focus and identity lately. The way prayers sound in my ears, the way Scripture challenges my mind, and the way relationships reveal God’s grace have become increasingly profound. I entered ministry expecting these changes someday, but never imagined their magnitude. Through all these changes, knowledge is no longer merely information stored in my head. It is becoming lived experience, woven into the fabric of who I am.

As I reflect on this transformation, I find myself drawn to one of the most profound truths in John’s Gospel: “The Word became flesh and lived among us.”

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. When I first recited prayers from the prayer book, they sounded foreign to me. Then I began learning their history and meaning. Over time, those prayers shaped my heart. I became what I pray.

When I say, “Life is changed, and not ended” in the funeral liturgy, I mean it sincerely from the bottom of my heart. The lives of our old friends continue to shape and inspire us long after they are gone. They become part of us, and someday we, too, will become part of others. John O’Donohue expressed this beautifully in his poem “On the Death of the Beloved”:

“Now you dwell inside the rhythm of breath, as close to us as we are to ourselves.”

Our lives are constantly transformed through our relationships with one another.

It is July. As we celebrate America’s 250th birthday, I find myself reflecting on the many changes that have taken place in this country. Personally, I am one of countless people whose life has been enriched by those changes. I am grateful for the love, support, challenges, opportunities, and relationships that have shaped me along the way.

Like people, prayers, friendships, and even songs, we are constantly being transformed by time and experience. What once seemed foreign becomes familiar. What once lived only in our minds becomes part of our hearts. Through it all, God continues the quiet work of shaping us into who we are called to be.

And apparently, even Madonna eventually becomes elevator music.

Faithfully, 

Fr. Andrew