Annunciation pastor calls first Sunday Mass after church shooting a ‘humble beginning’
by Joe Ruff – Catholic News Service September 2, 2025
(OSV News) — Recalling the fear and the cries from students, parents and school staff to “get low, stay down, stay down, don’t get up” as bullets tore through Annunciation church at an all-school Mass in Minneapolis, Father Dennis Zehren, the pastor, said it marked a new beginning.
Four days after the now-desecrated church remained closed, the auditorium in the parish school next door was filled with more than 400 people on Aug. 30, hugging, talking, crying and even smiling.
They were celebrating the first weekend Mass since the attack on Aug. 27 that killed two students at the elementary school, wounded 15 others and three adults, as Father Zehren was presiding. The suspected shooter was found dead at the scene of a self-inflicted gunshot wound, police said.
Archbishop Bernard Hebda concelebrated the Mass, and Deacon Kevin Conneely, who ministers at the parish and also was at the all-school Mass, assisted and read the Gospel. It drew people not only from the parish, but from other parts of the archdiocese, including Paul and Maggie Wratkowski and their three children of St. Cecilia in St. Paul.
“We’re here to support the Catholic community, the people that are here,” Paul Wratkowski said. “God wants us to thrive in community and support and love one another.”
But at this Mass, members of the congregation were not in the pews to which they had grown accustomed, Father Zehren said. They were in folding chairs, with the sanctuary on the auditorium’s stage. And they were still wrestling with the tragedy that had unfolded.
“It’s clear to us all here at Annunciation that we will be sitting in a different pew for a long time to come because of what happened,” Father Zehren said in his homily, as the church remained closed and must be reconsecrated before it can be used again for worship.
The Scriptures for the day point to humility, Father Zehren said. Jesus encourages his listeners in the Gospel passage from Luke to avoid taking the seat of honor at a banquet feast. Rather, take the lowest place.
“My good people of Annunciation, my good people of Minneapolis and beyond, we are in a very low place,” the pastor said. “We are in a lower place than we could have ever imagined. We can look around and see that this is not our normal seat. This is not where we usually gather, not in our usual worship space.”
At the same time, they were seated in the high school auditorium where Masses had been held for decades before the new church was built in 1961, Father Zehren said.
“Jesus speaks about humility, so we come back to our humble beginnings,” Father Zehren said. “That’s what this day represents. It’s a humble beginning. … It’s a call to begin again. The tricky part about the virtue of humility is that we don’t always get to choose the seating, the chart.”
At times, people get the seat of honor, or a seat where they are comfortable, with “all sorts of nice cushions,” the priest said.
“But sometimes we have to sit in the dust,” he said. “It’s a very humbling seat. I know the best thing we can do is just sit there for a while. … Jesus says, ‘Can you just sit with me here, in the dust? Because that’s where he is. It’s the same dust that Jesus fell in when he was carrying the cross. It’s the same dust that he bled in. Jesus said, ‘Can you just come sit with me and sit in this humble place?”
“That was the very first message we heard on Wednesday morning, when the first bullet came through the window, and the voices crying out, ‘Down, down. Get low, stay down, stay down, don’t get up,’” Father Zehren said, his voice breaking with emotion.
“But when we were down there, in that low place, Jesus showed us something,” he said. “He showed us, ‘I am the Lord even here. I am the one who descended into hell. I am the one who had taken on all the darkness and evil in this world, all the forces of darkness and death and evil.’ Jesus pointed and he said, ‘Can’t you see how weak it is? Can’t you see how desperate it is? Can’t you see that this can never last? Can’t you see that this is not why God created us?’”
“Then he showed us. He began to show us a light. It’s a new light. The light of a new day is breaking,” Father Zehren said. “We watch for that light of a new day…. That light of the world is Jesus Christ.”
“It reminds us, when death and darkness have done their worst, that’s when God says, ‘Now see what I will do,’” Father Zehren said.
Annunciation parishioners Sean O’Brien, his wife, Mallory, and their four children were at the Aug. 30 Mass. Sean O’Brien was at the all-school Mass as well, with their 2-year-old daughter, when the shooting occurred. Their fourth grader and first grader were in the pews. Their preschooler was in the church basement. None of them were injured.
“I think capturing how we all felt in such a strong way from the pulpit, it’s really meaningful to have a leader (Father Zehren) who can speak to that emotion,” said O’Brien, a lifelong member of the parish, where his grandfather was a deacon.
“I came in here optimistic that this community would rebuild, and I now have never been more certain of anything in my life,” he said. “I can’t wait to see what the Lord will do now.”
Joe Ruff is editor-in-chief of The Catholic Spirit, newspaper of the Archdiocese of St. Paul and Minneapolis. This story was originally published by The Catholic Spirit and distributed through a partnership with OSV News.
On plans for a ‘new Middle East’ without the Palestinian people
Our Vatican News Editorial Director criticizes plans to forcibly displace Palestinians from their land, calling for respect for the obligation to protect civilians.
By Andrea Tornielli
The Israeli–Palestinian conflict has long been a source of debate and polarization. The war now raging in Gaza, and the controversies surrounding it, have made this phenomenon even more extreme, if that were possible.
Intense—at times extreme—polarizations run through much of civil society in many countries around the world. As always, there is no shortage of manipulation, simplification, and approximation which, in such a complex context, risk misleading and doing harm.
This can be seen in the language used, in an extremely emotional approach, and in the inability to try to listen to the other.
In response to the horror of what happened nearly two years ago—the attack carried out by Hamas, which remains an inhuman act of terrorism to be condemned without any reservation—there followed a predictable Israeli reaction.
It has been a disproportionate reaction, going well beyond any ethically acceptable limit, as recognized not only by numerous international authorities but also by many voices within Israel itself and more broadly within the Jewish world.
If we analyze the war unleashed in Gaza while taking into account what is happening in the rest of Palestine—what was once called the West Bank—we cannot but think that, beyond the response to the massacre of October 7, there are other objectives as well.
The expansion of settlements, the continual and unpunished assaults by settlers, the public statements of some Israeli government ministers who hope for the end of the Palestinian Authority, the annexation of all the territories, and the deportation of Palestinians all lead one to think that the objective goes far beyond the elimination of Hamas or the guarantee of security for the State of Israel.
In recent days, a new settlement has been approved in the E1 area, which practically splits that territory in two. Likewise, there is talk of annexing Area C of the Palestinian Territories, which, moreover, is already under full Israeli control without ever having been formally annexed.
In this increasingly tense context, “plans” for a “new Middle East” are being published one after another—first quietly and now ever more openly—a kind of new order in which, however, there seems to be no place for the Palestinian people.
The latest of these is the plan now being discussed for the future development of Gaza. It envisions the construction of “smart” cities and luxury resorts.
Naturally, it provides for what is tellingly called the “voluntary evacuation” of Palestinians, who—if they wish—may one day return (sic!). And for those who do not want to leave, “special zones” are being designed… It is a plan that speaks for itself. One might have thought it was a work of science fiction, the plot of a fantasy film. Instead, it is—so it seems—sadly real.
It is sorrowful to note the weakness of the international community and multilateral bodies, unable to halt this drift, compounded by the deliberate ignoring of international conventions, respect for rules, and moral conduct. The only language left is that of force—first in words and then in military action.
The Church has no weapons and no power to impose anything. Her only weapon is prayer and the strength of the Gospel, which nevertheless compels us to speak a clear word of truth about the human person and about the life of the world.
No future can be built on force, on contempt for human life, or on the refusal of people’s aspiration to a dignified and secure existence.
We desire this—and we repeat it with conviction—for Israelis, continuing to call for the immediate release of all hostages still trapped in the tunnels of Gaza, as Pope Francis and then Pope Leo XIV have done in their appeals.
We desire it equally for Palestinians. We ask that the hostages be treated in a dignified and humane way, and at the same time that Palestinians in Gaza be treated in a dignified and humane way.
We hope that no-combat zones will be established throughout the Gaza Strip—true safe zones under international protection—where the sick, the vulnerable, and unarmed civilians can find shelter.
“Voluntary evacuations,” that is, forced displacement; total destruction; endless deaths; hospitals struck; daily killings of those standing in line for a crust of bread; the blocking of any clear political horizon that would give the Palestinian people dignity and a home in their own land—these will never build the future balance of the Middle East.
What is happening is, sadly, destined to create the next generation of people filled with hate and risks becoming yet another antechamber to yet another future wave of violence.
Certain development proposals that impose on Palestinians a future decided for them—and perhaps also over them, or worse, against them—are nothing but further proof of arrogance and blindness. The future of the Palestinians can and must be decided only together with them, never without them.
The Church, as she is already doing, will continue to bend down to bind the wounds of all.
She will continue to extend her hand to all who are willing to work together to create alternative contexts of life and dignity. Her doors will always remain open to those who refuse to surrender to the logic of hatred and war, and who seek practicable paths to peace.
For several years now, the Holy See has formally recognized the State of Palestine, and we cannot remain silent in the face of what is happening.
Once again we make Pope Leo XIV’s words our own, asking that the barbarity of war be stopped, that a peaceful solution to the conflict be reached, that humanitarian law be observed, that the obligation to protect the civilian population be respected, and that collective punishment, the indiscriminate use of force, and the forced displacement of the population be prohibited.
St. Ignatius’ Examen has shaped my poetry
by Jasmine Marshall Armstrong August 29, 2025
A friend from my undergraduate years at Loyola Marymount University who went on to become a Jesuit priest once said, “God likes to play hide and seek.” We were discussing the unexpected ways we encounter sparks of the divine in everyday life—sometimes in the places you’d least expect it.
I often think of my friend’s words in the process of writing poetry. So much in our lives no longer seems miraculous. We tend to live in an anodyne, and cynical, world where few moments give us a sense of rapture. The noise from social media, television and even the dailiness of our lives can lull us into a stupor of scrolling—passively consuming the world around us.
Yet, I’ve found that applying the principles of Jesuit spirituality that I first learned more than 25 years ago at L.M.U. keeps me wide awake to God’s presence all around me. I learned to use the daily Examen to be ever alert and mindful to the moments when I might see God peering out from the ordinary—and to reflect on those experiences.
Learning principles of Ignatian spirituality taught me to bring within myself what I witness and to meditate upon what I’ve experienced—to seek deep meaning beyond the literal. In his Spiritual Exercises, St. Ignatius Loyola wrote, “For it is not knowing much, but realizing and relishing things interiorly, that contents and satisfies the soul.” Ignatius reminds us to be humble and ready to respond to the world with new eyes.
This same process reflects my work as a poet. I often use the Examen to remind myself to be fully present to what I’m experiencing, and to let those moments ferment and mature.
California’s Central Valley, where I live, isn’t often considered a beautiful place, or one worthy of visiting. Yet there are surprising opportunities to grasp what the Jesuit poet and priest Gerard Manley Hopkins meant when he wrote, “The world is charged with the grandeur of God.”
Off an ordinary country road with the unpromising name Sandy Mush sits the Merced National Wildlife Refuge. It’s a place I often visit, with different seasons bringing different species of birds, from majestic sandhill cranes in the winter to a variety of songbirds in the spring. On a recent visit with my husband, we rounded the curve of a marsh, greeted by the sight of hundreds of yellow-headed blackbirds.
I had only seen a small flock once before. This time, the sight was amazing. Clutching the reeds were blackbirds, each with a head that reminded me of the sunflowers that grow beside the roads and ditches here in the Central Valley. Their bright yellow coloring, verging into orange beside their eyes, presented an unexpected pop of color.
I took this breathtaking sight home in my memory and let it percolate. I asked, what did this encounter reveal about God’s presence in the world?
I remembered passing a giant Amazon truck filled with goods on the drive out to the refuge. It’s a common sight that has become ubiquitous. As with the Examen, I let myself ruminate. I thought of my friend’s words about God. What was God trying to say in the contrast between the mundane and commercial, and the unexpected beauty of the natural?
I often pray for guidance when starting a poem. I felt drawn to the idea that the yellow-headed blackbirds unlocked something that had been fallow in my spirit, and it is not something that can be found on Amazon.com. It is the fleeting experience of unexpected grace—a gift reminding me that the miraculous, illuminating presence of God is all around me—if I am open to heeding his call. The experience led to a poem that has been accepted for publication in the literary journal The Dewdrop. It also reminded me to be ever present to the grandeur of the creator we can find in unexpected places.
This article is reprinted from LMU Magazine, the alumni magazine of Loyola Marymount University. (America Magazine)
Rekindling my Catholic faith in the ‘fourth quarter’ of life
by Maribeth Boelts August 1, 2025
The carpet was threadbare, the pews worn, in this cavernous Catholic church. Yellow tape blocked off an area of seating where the ceiling plaster had given way. My husband and I were attending a funeral, and it was there that we felt a still, persistent sense of a message from God to us. Let me back up.
My parents were devoted Catholics, raising six rowdy kids and scraping up enough to send us all to Catholic school through 12th grade. As a child, I loved God, but I had swirling questions about him too, questions that were not always welcome. In first grade, I asked Sister Julia, “If Jesus were all-powerful, why didn’t he come down off the cross and save himself?” Instead of an answer, I received a shaming directive. She told me to go stand in the coat closet and hold my arms out from my side for as long as I could, so I might experience just a taste of what Jesus did for me.
My frustration grew throughout my Catholic education and morphed into a teenage chip on my shoulder, particularly when it came to the prescribed experiences of parochial education. The mission trip where the longtime leader yelled at our group because we hadn’t responded as emotionally as his prior groups of teens. The T.E.C. weekends, during which I listened with skepticism to classmates pouring out publicly how they were going to change their ways and become better Catholics.
But at 16, I felt my heart soften a bit when I performed in the musical “Godspell.” I sang a solo, “By My Side.” This song follows a scene in which Marigold, who represents a woman condemned to be stoned, is saved by Jesus, who tells her: “You may go. Do not sin again.”
Marigold, taking Jesus’s words to heart, pleads to follow him, singing: “Where are you going? Where are you going? Can you take me with you? For my hand is cold, and needs warmth. Where are you going?”
On opening night, I sang these words and felt hot tears spring up, out of a well of longing for a real relationship with Jesus, one where I could follow him, unencumbered by what I, as a teenager, saw as all the rule-based religious rituals being taught.
Sister Liz, a beautiful, softhearted nun, watched the performance and reached out to me after it, with an invitation to talk. She asked what the words meant to me, and why I became teary. Then she listened, and gently affirmed that what I experienced was real, coming from an encounter with the divine. The years have not lessened the impact of her caring or her words to me.
Taking Another Path
When I graduated from high school, I married my Presbyterian boyfriend and shut the door on Catholicism. For three years, we visited churches of every denomination and landed, with a toddler in tow, at a welcoming, friendly Protestant church. We found the teaching accessible, the music outstanding, and the children’s education program engaging and fun for our young son. Soon we were volunteering, making friends and becoming fully enmeshed with the mantra we so often heard—a Christian life was about “life together.”
For 35 years, we served, led ministries and thoroughly enjoyed attending this church. As a young mother, I bought a Bible and learned how to study it. I discovered that prayer could be a conversation rather than a recitation, and I marveled at others who could spontaneously pray aloud. I raised my arms in praise during a moving worship song, and I could also laugh in wonder at moments when God’s timing and movement were unmistakable. My faith grew like a spring flower; and in a church that was young, expanding and full of energy, we raised our family.
But in 2019, my beloved husband died of brain cancer, and suddenly, the youth and energy, the big smiles and warm hugs, and the overall positivity of this church felt discordant with my grief and new widowhood. It was my gutting sadness that could not find a home within the culture of this church, and a pervasive sense of unease descended when I tried to attend. One of the contemporary worship songs we sang at this time repeated the lyrics: “You’re never gonna let, you’re never gonna let me down.” I wanted to scream when we sang that song, because of course we will feel let down by God. God is mystery. His thoughts are not our thoughts, nor his ways. And things like brain tumors that refuse to respond to treatment or prayers howled in the dark without answer can be experienced as God letting us down.
Our Next Steps
Time passed. Covid-19 took root. Our friendly church began to change. The leadership structure of our church became divided over a refusal to allow full inclusion of L.G.B.T.Q. people. I slipped away quietly and permanently, and turned more fully to a few of my favorite writers, who just happened to be Catholic—James Martin, S.J., Richard Rohr, O.F.M., Joyce Rupp, O.S.M. While their good words kept my soul afloat, I was deeply pained not to be a part of a thriving church community anymore.
Then I met a wonderful man who had been raised in a Catholic home very similar to my own. We fell in love and married, bringing our collective grief to the table but also our hopes and dreams for a happy and meaningful “fourth quarter” together. This would include finding a shared faith.
And that was the message from God at the funeral at that aforementioned cavernous church with the threadbare carpet. It was there that we both felt the entwining roots of our spiritual DNA, the ties to our departed parents, our relatives and our Catholic heritage, going back centuries. We both envisioned our parents attending daily Mass while we were growing up. We pictured them lighting candles, asking saints to intercede, praying the rosary. I watched people receive the Eucharist, and tears streamed as if I was seeing it for the first time. And as in childhood, the questions bubbled: Could God be doing a new thing, after all these years? Could I see Catholicism with more openheartedness and curiosity than I had in my youth? Could embracing my Catholic faith be the way forward at this stage of life and in a new marriage?
With wonderment, we began to attend Mass regularly, with the attitude that if we were going to explore this, we were going to be all in. I joined a weekly Bible study, asking so many questions of the faith-filled women I now call my dear friends. I learned the rosary, and in the final days of my mother’s life, I said it with her repeatedly. It brought us both great comfort. I took part in confession—with my Bible study women graciously showing me the ropes after my 45-year absence. In addition, my husband went through a lengthy annulment process with our brilliant and trusted parish priest, and we had a convalidation ceremony, where we said, “I do,” not only to each other but also to the solid ground of a shared, rekindled faith.
Perhaps it is the hard-won wisdom that comes with age, but the very rituals and practices I once scorned and believed were hindering my relationship with Jesus are the same rituals and practices that now usher me into his presence, time and time again. The solemnity, the sacrament, the history and its people—all speak to me now, perhaps in what has been all along my mother tongue, and that of my husband.
The solo that I sang at 16, with its pleading question of Jesus, “Where are you going?” can be assuredly answered with, “He’s been here all along.” How can we then keep from singing?