Saturday, April 9, 2022

Scenes From Literature

 “All little girls like pincushions,” pursued Miss Cuff. “When I was little, I had quite a collection of them.” She paused; she was getting very slight encouragement. Greta, who had just discarded a collection of bomb fragments (some with dates on them), was perhaps to be pardoned for a lack of ebullience.”

The Foolish Gentlewoman, Margery Sharp

Monday, April 4, 2022

The Other Side of Death

 Mr. Putin's war continues to shock and disgust most of the world. I try, from time to time to consider things from his point of view. He seems to believe that the land and its resources which currently comprise Russia are not enough for his people, or his ego, or both. That Ukraine should exist in its own right as an independent country with its own history, cultural, and westward tending ways, is a reality he cannot seemingly comprehend. He is blinded by evil disguised as nationalism, anti Nazism, pride for Russia.

But it is evil. And in the name of this evil his soldiers, who have been fed a diet of dehumanizing words against the people of Ukraine... they are pigs, let's wipe them from the face of the earth... have responded with the worst of human behavior. They have senselessly brutalized a people they could barely acknowledge were people at all. They have even gone after the dogs.

It is often said that in order to fight in a war, you have to be hardened to your targets in order to take aim at them and try to shoot them before they shoot you. We all understand this as a deplorable, but sometimes necessary part of fighting in a just war, though what constitutes a just war in today's world remains to be seen.  Certainly, for Ukrainians, defending themselves against Russian aggressors is a just activity. And if they must focus on the worst behavior of Russian soldiers in order to convince themselves that they must kill, then the world understands.

Mr. Putin doesn't have a point of view, if by that you mean a set of ideas which can be freely debated and countered in more or less rational terms. What he has is a lust for power that is uncontrolled, the reasons for which will be debated by historians in years to come after this mess is a distant memory.

I pray for Mr. Putin, because I know that no power on earth can change his mind. Only God can, and so I turn him over to the Lord of all creation who is perfect love, and whose love embraces every evil to the point of death, death on a cross. Putin and his crazed soldiers will always have the freedom to ignore the offer of love, but that offer will never be withdrawn. And that gives me comfort. When there is a great evil in the world, Saint John Paul II once said, it can only be met by an abyss of love.

I thought of this recently in quite another context. I was talking with a friend about the Catholic view of contraception, and whether it makes sense, especially if the goal for society is to reduce abortion. It would seem that providing contraception to couples could easily prevent the need for an unwanted pregnancy, and then an abortion, an outcome that is another form of disregard for human life.

But what if there is another way to counter abortion? What if the impulse to cherish every human life were to begin with the act of sexual congress itself, so that the very possibility of a human life resulting from that congress is thought to be a gift to be preserved. 

As I watch the terrible pictures emerging today from Ukraine, pictures of the torture, rape and murder of innocent Ukrainians, I think about the beauty of a witness which is the polar opposite. It is the witness of a love for human life which begins even before conception, which welcomes human life and seeks to cherish and preserve it until its natural death. This love is stronger than all the Putins of the world and all his lost soldiers. It points to the abyss of love, which is divine, but which can be hinted at in the actions of each of us, if we dare to try. It is not pragmatic love. It is the wide open all- embracing love that each one of us hopes to receive from our creator, and so it is the love that we pass on to others as best we can. Contraception has been reduced to a medical act that might have a positive effect on society, but looked at another way, it is measure that narrows and limits the outer boundaries of love, the abyss of love that the world so terribly needs. 

It is hard to speak of these things, and to speak clearly. But I am trying because against all reason I know that there is a love that is greater than death and destruction, a love that I want to witness to because the alternative is to drop bombs on Putin and his minions and wipe them off the face of the earth. Love can creep into every human activity if we allow it to. And that includes our sexual activity. In fact, a witness against the use of contraception speaks to me of a powerful love, unwavering in its trust that every single human life, even those that exist in the form of possibility as sexual expression occurs, is unique and beautiful. It is, if you will, the other side of death.

 Deo, dicamus gratias. 





Tuesday, February 15, 2022

Scenes From Literature

 “Mr Annett’s patience snapped suddenly. He rattled his baton on the reading desk and flashed his eyes. ‘Please, please! I’m afraid we must begin without Mrs Pickett. Ready, Miss Read? One, two!’ We were off. Behind me the voices rose and fell, Mrs Pringle’s concentrated lowing vying with Mrs Willet’s nasal soprano. Mrs Willet clings to her notes so cloyingly that she is usually half a bar behind the rest. Her voice has that penetrating and lugubrious quality found in female singers’ renderings of ‘Abide With Me’ outside public houses on Saturday nights. She has a tendency to over-emphasize the final consonants and draw out the vowels to such excruciating lengths, and all this executed with such devilish shrillness, that every nerve is set jangling. This evening Mrs Willet’s time-lag was even worse than usual. Mr Annett called a halt.”


“‘This,’ he pleaded, ‘is a cheerful lively piece of music. The valleys, we’re told, laugh and sing. Lightly, please, let it trip, let it be merry! Miss Read, could you play it again?’ As trippingly and as nimbly as I could I obliged, watching Mr Annett’s black, nodding head in the mirror above the organ. The tuft of his double crown flicked half a beat behind the rest of his head. ‘Once more!’ he commanded, and obediently the heavy, measured tones dragged forth, Mr Annett’s baton beating a brisk but independent rhythm. Suddenly he flung his hands up and gave a slight scream. The choir slowed to a ragged halt and pained glances were exchanged. Mrs Pringle’s mouth was buttoned into its most disapproving lines, and even Mr Willet’s stolid countenance was faintly perturbed. ‘The time! The time!’ shouted Mr Annett, baton pounding on the desk. ‘Listen again!’ He gesticulated menacingly at my mirror and I played it again. ‘You hear it? It goes: ‘They dance, bong-bong, They sing, bong-bong, They dance, BONG and BONG, sing BONG-BONG! It’s just as simple as that! Now, with me!’”


— Village School (Fairacre Book 1) by Miss Read


Monday, February 7, 2022

The Circle of Life

 I received an email notification that began with these encouraging words: 

Fr. S. and I want you to be among the first to know about our upcoming seminar on circle of life issues.

Among the topics to be discussed: funeral planning .

It is to be a socially distanced live event, though I couldn’t help wondering, given my status as among the first to know, my demise being apparently imminent, whether social distancing is strictly necessary. 


Scenes From Literature

“‘Mr Willet,’ he said with something between a sob and a hiccup, ‘I got something to ask you.’ ‘Well, git on with it,’ said Mr Willet sharply. The draught from the door was cruel. Arthur Coggs looked behind him furtively, then advanced another step. ‘Willet, are you saved?’ he pleaded earnestly. Mr Willet’s patience snapped at this insult to as steady-going a churchman as the village boasted. ‘Saved?’ he echoed. ‘I’m a durn sight more saved than you are, you gobbering, great fool!’ And he attempted to push Arthur through the door. But, with the strength of one who burns with nine pints of beer and religious convictions, Arthur thrust him aside, closed the door with a backward kick, and came further into the room. He leant heavily on the table and looked across at the incensed Mr Willet. ‘But ’ave you seen the light?’ he persisted. ‘Do your limbs tremble when you think of what’s to come?’”


“Mr Willet’s limbs were trembling enough, as it was, with cold and fury. He opened his mouth to speak, but was shouted down. ‘Gird on your armour, Willet!’ bellowed Arthur, his breath coming in beery waves across the table. He brandished his arms wildly, knocking down a very old fly-paper, that fell glutinously across the red serge tablecloth. ‘Gird on your sword! Gird on your ’elmet, Willet!’ His eye lit upon two stuffed owls that dominated the dresser by the fire-place. Carefully he lifted the heavy glass cover from them, and, with a glad cry, dropped it over his own head. The stuffed owls swayed on their dead branch, and Mrs Willet gave a little wail, and came down the last three stairs. Like some enormous goldfish Arthur rounded on her, eyes gleaming through the cover. ‘You saved?’ he bellowed suspiciously to the newcomer, steaming up the glass as he spoke. ‘Yes, thank you,’ murmured Mrs Willet faintly, shrinking behind her husband. ‘Then put on your ’elmet,’ advised Arthur, tapping the glass by his right ear. ‘Gird your loins—!’ ‘’ Ere, that’s enough of that!’ shouted Mr Willet, enraged. He caught hold of the dome above Arthur’s shoulders and attempted to force it off; but so heavy was it, and so much taller was his visitor, that he found it impossible to accomplish. ‘Sit you down, will ’ee?’ screamed Mr Willet, giving the glass a vicious slap and Mr Coggs a most unorthodox blow in the stomach. Arthur folded up neatly and sat, winded, on the horsehair sofa……


“This dreadful scene had direct repercussions on our school life, for Joseph Coggs was absent the next morning, spoiling the week’s record of attendance for the infants’ room. ‘Me dad overdone it,’ he explained in the afternoon, ‘and we was all late up.’”


— Village School (Fairacre Book 1) by Miss Read




Sunday, February 6, 2022


All God's Creatures
Maestro, known to alert readers as  Meestie the Beastie, who likes nothing better than watching water run down a drain, has a new hobby. He jumps up in front of my computer monitor and watches my cursor move as I compose music. I'm well into a study of what makes music suitable for liturgy. I have several versions of the Gloria going these days, so my cursor, that small green indicator on the screen that moves note by note as I try out ideas for robust yet prayerful singing, is busy. Meestie watches intently. 

My first reaction, I am sorry to say, was to heave him off the desk, and onto the floor where he could not get in the way. But, being the persistent creature he is, he immediately jumped backed up on the desk and continued his perusal of my score. 

And then I had another thought.

How wonderful it is that, in my week of Covid confinement (I'm not terribly sick having been innoculated and boosted,) I can still be creative and busy, even if my output is (perhaps) sub par. I mean, I have a functioning computer with a Musical composition program installed that allows me to put onto paper the notes that I would otherwise be hand writing, and thus it saves me time and frustration. ( Alas, it doesn't make me a better composer.)

We live in a time of  amazing technical advancement, that over the span of 30 or so years most of us now take for granted.  Meestie does not. He regards it as amazing that a green cursor can move around a big flat screen and apparently produce a work of music, or a bunch of dots and sticks and parallel lines.
Whatever.

It is wonderful, this time we live in, even if it is fraught with conflict and viruses, and a complete lack of civil discourse in the public square.

We have cursors. We have all the advancements that computerized technology has birthed. 

We have pets who remind us from time to time not to take ourselves too seriously, and to receive with gratitude the gifts we have already been given.

We have a God who burns with divine love, who IS divine love for each of us, no matter our circumstances.

Meestie is back up on my desk, which I take as a sure sign that my writing for today is finished. That's probably for the best.  Whichever version of the ronas I have, it has taken away much of my ability to concentrate.

So for now, the cat and I are retiring for a nap. We wish you peace and renewed contentment.

Sunday, January 30, 2022

The Church That Father Stan Built

In June of 2007, a priest from the state of Tamil Nadu, in South India, arrived in Dallas to serve in the parish community of All Saints. Father Stan, as we now know him, was taking a sabbatical leave from the diocese of Kumbakonam, where he had primarily served since his ordination in 1980. Leaving behind the joys and the challenges of daily pastoral work in his poor, rural parishes, Fr. Stan came to find refreshment and a new perspective in the Dallas Diocese. In some ways the contrasts he discovered couldn't have been more marked. Where Father Stan had small churches with no pews, worshippers sitting and kneeling on the floor during mass, in Dallas he found a large church, pews filled to overflowing with relatively well- to- do people at multiple masses every weekend. Where Father Stan had one housekeeper, and a sacristan to aid him, in Dallas he is part of a large staff. In addition the parish has many willing volunteers who see it as their lay vocation to serve the church in a variety of ways. From a Diocese where Hindu temples dominate and Christians make up only 6% of the population (compared to India's national average of 2% Christian) he found a Catholic Diocese thriving in the midst of many Christian churches, overall roughly 50% of the population Christian, with some 38% identifying themselves as Catholic. 

In the end it may be the differences in demographics that will tell the biggest tale as Father Stan returns home to India later this June and reflects on his three years among us. As Father Stan explained, when missionaries sought converts in South India, it was often the poorest people who responded. Due to India's caste system, in addition to being poor, these people of the Sudra class were at the lower end of the social heap as well.

The top of the heap, India's Brahmins , are mostly not converted for the simple reason that they have always been the Hindu priestly class. Between the Brahman Hindu caste and the Sudra, Christians also can be found in the two middle classes. Father Stan and the people he grew up with were from these middle groups, mostly farmers, people well-respected in their agricultural villages. While the caste system is officially on the wane in India, in rural villages old customs remain. Father Stan recounts that until as recently as 30 years ago, a Sudra could not be ordained a priest because no parish would have accepted him. Today, members of different castes still sit in their "section" of a church, especially if the church is built in the old cruciform plan. They will eat together as a group at a church function, but outside church gatherings, they may not even eat at the same event.

 Pastorally, this is challenging for India's priests. In his typically quiet and unassuming way, though, Father Stan told of a change of heart that occurred while he was the priest of Our Lady of Lourdes parish. The one hundred and fifty year old building he and his parishioners were using was only large enough to hold a small percentage of the 5000 people seeking mass on a regular basis. It was clear that a new building had to be built, and so Father Stan undertook a building campaign. Realizing that the old style of separation into castes at Mass could not continue, he planned to build the new church not in the shape of a cross, which by its nature offered convenient sections for each group to occupy, but in a simple rectangle. Father Stan recalls that when people got wind of the plans for the new church's design, they announced that this church could not be built.

"Where will we sit?"

 Father Stan encouraged them not to worry about such things, explaining that there would be plenty of room in the building, and seating would sort itself out. The idea of putting up barriers to section people off was broached, but Father Stan again reminded them that they needed to get the building up and running, and seating could be managed at a later point.

 As he talks about this, Father Stan points out that it is no small matter to placate people whose way of doing things is deeply embedded in the social fabric of India. All priests in India realize that the ideal of one body in Jesus Christ is not being met as long as the caste system remains in place. But undoing it is a huge pastoral problem. Priests learn to be patient with the system even while they try to undo it. 

The new Our Lady of Lourdes church was built and blessed by the Bishop, and predictably, the lower caste loved it. The upper castes were not enthusiastic. But through God's grace and the kind patience of Father Stan, people came to accept the arrangement. It is possible today at our Lady of Lourdes to sit wherever one chooses! Of course Father Stan points out, outside of church his parishioners still separate in the old way.

 To know Father Stan is to know a gentle, loving and spiritual man. It is also to know a priest for whom the advice "preach the Gospel daily and occasionally use words" is most wonderfully lived.

Not having the patience or the loving trust that Father Stan has, I cannot imagine myself ever doing what he did. The longer I ponder this miracle, the more I realize that it took some very special pastoral gifts for him to have overcome in Our Lady of Lourdes Church centuries of custom.

Do his parishioners realize that they are embodying in a very new and special way the unity of the body of Christ as they mix together under one roof in the name of Jesus Christ? Surely they sense the movement toward genuine Christian living as they sit and kneel behind and in front of and next to people from other classes.

Father Stan has many accomplishments to his credit, two masters degrees from the "Greg" in Rome, the position of Rector of the Minor Seminary in his Diocese.
But his greatest achievement may well be the church that he built in a poor and rural part of South India, the church shaped as a rectangle where everyone now sits together. It is called Our Lady of Lourdes Church, though in my mind it will always be the Church That Father Stan Built.