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 end 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

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.

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.

On Learning To Be a Catholic, Revisited

I wonder sometimes if cradle Catholics fully understand what we converts go through as we begin dipping our toes into Catholic waters. In our case, when we finally made the decision to stop attending our Protestant place of worship, and we attended the nearest Catholic parish for Mass for the first time, it was slightly uncomfortable. In the first place, most good Catholics know the mass liturgy by heart, and use the worship aid sparingly if at all. The worship sheet usually contains the Psalm response, which is helpful, and the page numbers for the hymns. I didn't know the liturgy, other than the Creed and the Lord's prayer when we began our wonderful Catholic adventure. I didn't even know that you can follow along in the front of the hymn book, or bring along a missal if you are unsure of things. It's hard to explain just how strange it all was at first, even though it was also exhilarating. The kneeling came easily; I loved the humility I saw being expressed by eight or nine hundred people all kneeling during the Eucharistic prayer. I loved observing the outstretched hands or the upturned faces as each member received, one by one, the body and blood of Christ. I wasn't sure when to make the sign of the cross. I didn't know to bow my head as we recited the incarnatus est during the creed. As for genuflections...I was afraid I would fall down and not be able to get up again. It reminded me of my first day as a camp counsellor at Camp Chimney Corners. 

The staff, mostly college students, had arrived a week prior to the opening of camp for orientation. After a long and fairly chilly day in the refreshingly cool Berkshires, we were all ready for hot showers before retiring to our cabins. The showers were rather rustic, being outdoors and consisting of wooden partitions with no roof, sited on a cement pad, with individual shower heads in each "stall". By the end of the summer I found it quite wonderful to shower in the moonlight with an occasional owl off in the distance to keep us company, but that first evening was more a matter of waiting for a turn to let the abundant hot water warm up shivering limbs. There was in fact plenty of hot water. The difficulty was that in order to get the hot water to run, you had to hold on to a chain. As soon as you let go of the chain, the water stopped. I quickly grasped the essential task, and held on with my right hand, allowing the hot water to flow down. Then I paused. I reached for my shampoo bottle with my left hand, and could not for the life of me figure out how to open it and wash my hair with only one hand. I tried biting the cap with my teeth, but to no avail. And I really did not want to let go of the chain and stop the flow of hot soothing water! But, seeing no way around it, I let go, soaped up, and then pulled the chain and rinsed off. Well, it was camp after all. It was a night or two later, while showering again, that I noticed the nail in the wall. Oh...that's how it was done. You attached the chain to the nail, and then you could have both hands free. Another hurdle crossed. 

 By the time I learned when to make the sign of the cross during Mass (by watching everyone else) and when to bow during the creed, (my husband pointed that out) I had also figured out that most people did not in fact genuflect, and I could relax and not worry about tripping over myself.

 I am not one to suggest that becoming a Catholic can be reduced to learning the appropriate gestures and rituals...far from it. But a lack of familiarity with such things does give pause to someone previously steeped in a different tradition. Which may not be a bad thing. It is the "otherness" of Catholicism that is so attractive, the world previously unknown and unexplored that lies before a newcomer and seems to beckon continually, inviting converts into one new experience after another. It is a constant series of surprises at first, each one more delightful than the last. It is daily Mass, and the Easter Vigil Mass, then the season of Easter punctuated by sprinkling water and a renewal of baptismal vows; the daily calendar of saints and blesseds, feasts and solemnities; the statues and medals; the rosary and the devotion to Mary; lighted candles everywhere, adoration and prayer in the real presence of Jesus. I am still experiencing and discovering, and I see no sign that the end is in sight. 

 Learning how to take an outdoor shower for an entire summer, and indeed the other camp experiences, learning to sleep at night with a bandanna sprinkled with a smelly substance called "Fly Dope" to keep the mosquitoes away, being comfortable with a resident bat the girls adopted and named Igor, hiking eight miles in the rain and then setting up camp along side a lake, these were all new and inviting experiences also in their own way. But the still on-going season of discovering the Catholic Church is by far the richest and most rewarding one I have ever known. It is always in the end a discovery of truth, of things sacred, divine, holy. I suppose it is the difference between driving in a car across America, and riding in a rocket ship into outer space toward infinity and beyond! Here's to the Catholic Church, to her new members as well as her long-time faithful. May we all continue together on the journey of discovery, the road that leads us closer to God. Deo gratias!

My England

While growing up, I was introduced to England, the land of my forebears, through the usual channels of literature and television. I committed to memory parts of the prologue to the Canterbury tales, read Shakespeare and watched Masterpiece Theater on Sunday nights.

It wasn't until I spent a year studying at Manchester College in Oxford, that I experienced for myself a bit of England in all its glorious richness.

Manchester College was (and still is I imagine) partly a training college for Unitarian pastors, partly a college for average British students, as well as a college for American students seeking a year of abroad study. Today it is affiliated with the University in Oxford, though when it was founded it was a separate institution for "dissenters". When I studied there I had the best of both worlds open to me, the lectures, the old Oxford architecture, the history apparent everywhere that told tales of past glories and sad division. And then there were the students at Manchester, many of whom represented the dissident past, the English Unitarians, a part of history about which I knew almost nothing. (It would have been even more fun had I known some Catholics in Oxford, those other dissident folk who were so famously martyred for their beliefs in England, but I don't recall meeting a single Catholic that year.)

I loved the Unitarians I met in England. They revealed to me the England I still carry around with me now in memory. I got to know them through my friend Penny, a woman who was studying to be a Unitarian minister.

On weekends Penny was assigned to various Unitarian parishes in the surrounding Cotswold villages where she would preach and lead worship services. She took me along with her to fill in as the accompanist at these churches. Ever ready for an adventure, I went out with her on several occasions in her small car that was always seemingly on the verge of breakdown. When we arrived at whatever village was hosting us for the morning or evening, we were invariably fed a bountiful tea, a pure delight to a young American. The vast array of baked goods was memorable.

Then followed the worship service. Penny and I would take a few minutes to survey the church, and I would examine the musical instrument available, usually a piano or a harmonium. I had never played a harmonium before, but I got the hang of it. The trick is to pump the pedals continuously so that air can flow through to the bellows and keep the sound going. Stop pumping and the tones will die away.

I don't remember any of the hymns we sang, or their texts, probably because playing an old harmonium in a damp church takes a good bit of concentration. But I do remember Mrs. Heywood.

Mrs. Heywood, one of the many obviously committed Unitarians present, older and without personal diffidence or timidity, invariably sat in the back of the church. This was quite possibly because of the style and size of her hats, which, had they been in front of others would have blocked their view entirely.

Mrs. Heywood had a large voice to match her tastes in hats, and she sang with complete confidence. She especially loved to hold onto high notes, so much so that I would be forced to pedal away furiously trying to sustain these long notes until Mrs. Heywood was ready to move on to the next musical phrase. There was no arguing with Mrs. Heywood, no moving the music forward unless she was ready to move also.

Afterwards, the ever-present sandwiches would re-appear, and tea would be on again. Mrs. Heywood would join in with the others, Penny would say a final prayer, and another Sunday would come to a close.

There was no pretense in these Sunday gatherings, no attempt at fashion other than Mrs. Heywood's hats, no intense conversation in the manner of serious undergraduates over their elevenses, nothing but friendly give and take among a fairly elderly group of people. I don't remember anything religious ever being discussed. It was civilized, warm and enormously comforting to a young student away from home for a year.

In the end, my year in England will remain in memory a year of self -discovery and study, to be sure, but it will also be the year during which I made the choice to spend part of my weekends volunteering in churches and hanging around with people like Penny and Mrs. Heywood, and many other kind souls. I made the decision to attend seminary myself only two or three years after that year. While I finally left Protestant ministry behind, I have never left the love for church in all its sorts and conditions. I don't know what were the beliefs of all those Unitarians I met, and it probably doesn't matter. They certainly didn't lead me astray in any way. As with many good church people, it was their kindness, their hospitality, their obvious love for their church that has remained with me.

It will not always be the Catholic Church that brings us into union with Christ, though it will be within the Catholic Church that the fullness of the faith is located. In my case it was several different churches that played a role before I found my home in Catholicism. I am thankful to Penny and Mrs. Heywood and the other English Unitarians who set me on my adult path toward serving the church. They will always be for me, as much as Shakespeare, Blake or Dorothy Sayers, my England!

Eeyore's Gift

Eeyore walked all round Tigger one way, and then turned and walked all round him the other way.
"What did you say it was?" he asked.
"Tigger."
"Ah!" said Eeyore.
"He's just come," explained Piglet.
"Ah!" said Eeyore again.
He thought for a long time and then said:
"When is he going?"
Pooh explained to Eeyore that Tigger was a great friend of Christopher Robin's, who had come to stay in the Forest, and Piglet explained to Tigger that he mustn't mind what Eeyore said because he was always gloomy; and Eeyore explained to Piglet that, on the contrary, he was feeling particularly cheerful this morning; and Tigger explained to anybody who was listening that he hadn't had any breakfast yet.
"I knew there was something," said Pooh.
"Tiggers always eat thistles, so that is why we came to see you, Eeyore."
"Don't mention it, Pooh."
"Oh, Eeyore, I didn't mean that I didn't want to see you---"
"Quite--quite. But your new stripey friend--naturally he wants his breakfast. What did you say his name was?"
"Tigger."
"Then come this way, Tigger."
Eeyore led the way to the most thistly-looking patch of thistles that ever was, and waved a hoof at it.
"A little patch I was keeping for my birthday," he said; "but, after all, what are birthdays? Here today and gone tomorrow. Help yourself Tigger."


I was raised on Winnie the Pooh. My father used to read the stories aloud to us at bedtime and was particularly good at using a different voice for each character. He nailed Eeyore, who has always been to me one of the funniest characters in fiction.

Which is a good thing, because I have known and worked with a few Eeyores in real life.

What is hilarious in a children's story is sometimes trying in real life. Real life Eeyores have a way of driving me to adoration and/or confession, which may well be why God allows them to make appearances in my life like the occasional jalapeno pepper accidentally bitten and swallowed whole. Not as memorable as a habanero, but memorable enough.

I am still working on the special knack some have, the knack of not allowing irritating people to get under their skin. A former pastor, for example, has a delightful way of coping with gloomy utterances. "He would like you to think that" he will say, with a twinkle in his eye, when he hears that someone has complained about being too busy, too overworked , to take his allotted vacation time.

Of course, we should feel sorry for habitually gloomy Eeyores. It can't be much fun to see only the negative side of things. I attended a retreat a few years ago, my first silent retreat. On the last day of the retreat, I sat down for lunch at a table occupied by only one other woman, and she was wearing an aggrieved expression.

"The food this week has been awful" she whispered.

I looked up, startled that she was breaking the "no talking" rule. Having gained my attention, she went on in angry whispers about how much money she had paid, and look what they were dishing up.

I had been more or less enjoying the food. And the silence. So I smiled and went on quietly eating. But I did wonder if the entire retreat experience had been a positive one for her, and if not, how she coped with it all. Silent retreats are supposed to be opportunities for prayer, and as such are meant to be uplifting.

Eeyore does have his moments of contentment. On his birthday we find him standing by a stream looking at himself in the water, and finding nothing good in the image staring back at him. Then Pooh arrives and Eeyore says, famously,

"Good morning, Pooh Bear, ...if it is a good morning,.. which I doubt."

By the end of the day, and after a series of misadventures during which Pooh and Piglet try unsuccessfully to bring presents to Eeyore whole and intact, Eeyore surprisingly feels grateful for the imperfect offerings.

Picking up a ruined balloon and dropping it carefully into an empty honey pot, Eeyore demonstrates that his balloon fits perfectly into his pot.

As the story closes, Eeyore "was taking the balloon out and putting it back again, as happy as could be..."

You never know. Which is why I suppose that in the end it is always better to reserve judgment on even the gloomiest and most subtly sarcastic Eeyores. After all, they might surprise you.

The woman who hated the food at our retreat might have after all enjoyed other aspects of her experience.

The overworked employee might have gone on vacation after all and found that things did not fall apart in his absence.

I'm still trying to be upbeat around my Eeyores when I encounter them. But until I develop just the right tone, and the right attitude to go with it, I might just as well resolve to attend adoration, pray the rosary and try to let God work in and through me.

Or maybe I should just try singing a song, as Pooh once did when Eeyore had stumped him.

"That's right," said Eeyore. "Sing. Umpty-tiddly, umpty-too. Here we go gathering Nuts and May. Enjoy yourself."

"I am," said Pooh.

"Some can," said Eeyore.

OK, I am officially throwing in the towel. I'm going to adoration.