A homily for the Fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time, February 4, 2024
Jb 7:1-4, 6-7, 1 Cor 9:16-19, 22-23, Mk 1:29-39
In my first job as a professional journalist, at the now-defunct Daily and Sunday Register in Shrewsbury (better known as the Red Bank Register), I was obliged to do a lot of typing. Sports scores and statistics, mostly. Long, long lists of stats and records. Much of it was on a tweaked IBM Selectric typewriter, modified so my words on legal-size paper could be scanned into a rudimentary computerized typesetting system.
This was 1978, after all.
I also had the task of tapping the keyboard of a hand-me-down phototypesetting system, sent from The Register’s absentee owners in Toledo. Yes, the hometown of Max Klinger from M*A*S*H. Into that “tube,” I transcribed the wit and wisdom of George Sheehan, The Running Doctor, as well as the results of the thoroughbred races at Monmouth Park.
It was tedious, what a colleague years later would refer to as “chimping.”
A different colleague, though, had a more sanguine outlook: “That’s why they call it ‘work.'”
“Never apologize.”