Encounter with the Enemy

The large wet snowflakes fell on the path leading through the smaller hills that stand between the Austrian towns of Hainfeld and Grill. The path was quite plain as the frequent use had churned it into a muddy rut in the midst of the pure white snow that had fallen all around it. Despite it’s well traveled look, only a solitary figure could be found on that path just now.

He was a tall man, just over six feet, with a dynamic muscular build that was well hidden in the folds of his winter coat. His face was cold and hard where it was visible between the top of the black coat, and the grey brim of his fedora. Small curls of jet black hair poked from under the hat contrasting with the dead grey of his eyes that marked him as one who had undergone the surgical augmentations to become an agent for the Office of Government and Religion.

He was out on official business and as he drudged through the snow he mused on the scenery around him. These hills in the midst of the mighty Alps were not very different in look to the Carpathian Mountains he had left to come here. He had spent his last five years in those mountains suppressing a blood religion that claimed it be started by Vlad the impaler. Vlad was and old Hungarian count who they claimed had sold his soul to the devil to gain immortatillity on the battlefield. They claimed that his life was replenished by drinking the blood of his Turkish enemies, and then later on any man who dared cross him.

These religions of the blood sickened and outraged him. His parents had held to some ancient brutish god as well, Crom, the god of war. They had named him after that god. Crom though was no blood God, but a god of honour and strength, he was a god to inspire the man on the battlefield was he faced down his enemies and sent them to Sheol. The religion of Crom was a religion without rites, at least none that his parents had ever shared with him. When Crom had first discovered the black rites of the great black gods he had blanched at their brutality. It was that very thing that lead him to join the Office and undergo the process for becoming an agent.

He had been called from his hunting in the state of Hungary to help a fellow agent here in Austria who had tracked down several different Christian communities and wanted to hit them all at once. Crom had never hunted Christians before nor had he seen their rites. His only knowledge of Christians was limited to his training where they were spoken of it as a once dominate religion of blood. Apparently these Christians got together to eat the flesh and drink the blood of their God. Just how they got that flesh and blood was unclear, but Crom was fairly certain that they like the other black religions used a human, probably in some sort of religious trance of mania, to represent the flesh of the God.

These thoughts brought him quickly over the hill to the bottom of a shear rock face. He followed the grey stone for nearly one hundred yards before he found the place were some of the footprints left off from the path and disappeared into the stoney cliff.

Crom had been informed about this secret door After a few moments of feeling the stone he had found the locking mechinism and released it, allowing the small boulder to swivel silently at his touch. The movement of the the rock recealed a small hole for him to enter. Once inside he allowed the boulder to resume it’s original position.

The passage was dimly lit and let downward for thirty of forty feet be fore it came to a simple wooden door in a simple wooden wall. The hallway itself was hewn from the stone and unadorned except for the various electric lamps hanging on the stonewall.

Crom approached the door and knocked once. There was an echoing knock and he responded with an another single knock. A small window opened through which all he could see was lips. The lips spoke, “Jesu mortes est.”

The rehearsed response sprang at once to Crom’s lips, “Sed resurrectio fuit iterum.” The knock and password worked just as he had been briefed. The door swung open to admit him into a large, well lit chamber.

The room was nearly full of people probably almost two hundred in all. It only took a glance to kow that he was in the ritual chamber. There in the front was the altar raised up above the floor and near it was surely priest dressed in an off white dress embroidered with images. There were also a number of other attendants up near the alter, presumably assisting the priest.

Above the altar was the statue of a dead man nailed to a cross. Around the room their were other stautes and paintings of different men and women. Some of those images held a child, a flower a tool or a weapon. Some of those images were wounded, indeed one was full of arrows, but others were entirely whole and without any visible imperfection.

Crom had a growing uneasiness. He could not understand it at first, but as he continued to observe the ritual and the room he started to understand his feelings. His first realization was of the white cloth on the altar and the white garment of the priest. In all his previous experience the altars where kept bare and the priest was either naked or almost naked eliminating the need to clean the clothing after it was drenched with the blood of the victim. The ritual too made him uncomfortable as they sang in what must be latin to rather pleasant tunes and responded evenly to the priest. Crom was used to the frenzied worshipers who sang and cried brutish hellish chants while screaming their responses to their priest in long hidden black and evil languages.

Despite of his uneasiness Crom stayed himself with iron nerve. He followed the simple gestures of those around him, standing and then kneeling. This continued for nearly forty minutes with a constant dialogue between the priest and the people. At one point the priest gave a long instruction in the Germanic Austrian dialect, but Crom knew only a smattering of that language and only caught the occasional word, baby, god, born, star, died.

Then Crom watched as the priest mounted the altar steps. It was difficult to see all that was happening as the priest stood mostly with his back to the people, but from was as an attendant brought him a golden cup and bowl adorned with jewels. Then the attendant brought two vials of liquid one red and one clear. Crom strained his eyes, was that blood. It might be but it seemed too translucent and pink. The priest poured them both into the chalice before handing the vials back to the attendant who then washed the priest’s hands.

Crom waited, he still saw no victim. He saw incense and gestures and heard bells and the priest lift above his head a small white circle and then the golden chalice. He saw the priest spread his arms and close them and turn to face the people and then turn back to the altar but still Crom saw no blood. The priest never let blood, either from a victim or from himself.

All at once Crom was aware that the people were going up to the priest who was giving them something from the golden plate while another attendant gave the people the chalice to drink from. Crom followed the example given, moved to the front knelt down and received the object from the priest onto his tongue. It was only Crom’s mastery of his will that kept him from laughing aloud when he recognized it to be cracker of some sort. Then receiving and drinking from the chalice he was amazed to discover only wine.

Crom returned to his place. He knew and understood his orders, it was to confirm and neutrilize the Christian presence in this small region. What he did not understand was this. All these Christians did was eat bread and drink wine. For the first time in his life Crom saw that the religion of the god Crom was also a religion of the blood, for it demanded the blood of his enemies spilled upon the ground. So to was the Office of Government and Relision a religion of blood for all it’s enemies must be bleed for the sake of the government, but here was a rite that had no ritual of blood despite all it’s statues and history. Did the Christ of the Christians not demand the blood of children and virgins. Did that Christ not even demand the blood of his enemies. What sort of God was this that the Christians worshipped?

Crom smoked a cigerette that had been offered him by an old man as the left the cave. It was not treason that caused Crom to descend out of those hills without having shed the blood of a single Christian. He had been trained to destroy those religions who were the enemy the humankind and in that cave the only enemy to humankind he had found was the one he found in himself.

Ode to my former Seminarian Brothers

I just recently came across this poem that I wrote near the beginning of my Spirituality Year at St. John Vianney seminary here in Denver. I believe I originally wrote this to my brothers attending Immaculate Heart of Mary seminary in Winona, Minnesota. When I rediscovered it I first thought I must have written it right before I left seminary, but the date on it was three years previous to that. So with out further ado I dedicate this poem to all those I attended seminary with.

To all you guys who sit in class,

While I go out and play on grass,

In sympathy for tests and exams,

While I sit and ponder the great I AM,

and in the "Caf" where you sit in fright,

I gobble it up in great delight,

Remembering fellowship of times now gone,

When the Bishop bids me come along,

Now know that I will pray for thee,

I just ask that you might pray for me.

And all the times that we have missed

We are together in the Eucharist.

And If we come to meet again,

To find that now we still are friends

Then we must, in all our cheer,

Hold aloft our steins of Beer!

Surviving the End of the Universe

A headline in a magazine caught my eye (although not enough to make me actually read the article; I was in quite the hurry). How to Survive the End of the Universe was the article, and it appeared in some sort of science/technology magazine. Now perhaps I am too small-minded to understand the hidden significance of this headline, but my first thought was, "Who would want to survive the collapse of all existence?"

I can just imagine the moment following the collapse. "Ah well, here I am, old chap. I must have done it after all. I guess I really showed God what's what. I really should contact that magazine and tell them what a bunch of top-notch folk their scientists are and just how useful that information was to me. I dare say that this deserves a bit of a celebration. I'm glad I saved a bottle of that 20-year-old Jamesons from when I created artificial intelligence." 

Looking around for the first time: "Confound it, who turned the lights off? Must have been old Wilkes, likely the chap didn't know I was in here. He's a terrific gentleman's gentleman but he is a bit too caught up with the whole 'conserving energy' thing. Of course, he grew up in a house that had relied on the old coal plants as we started running out of coal. Poor chap, that really affected him."

"Wilkes. Wilkes! I say, Wilkes, old chap! In the study -- just pop in and put the light on, would you?"

Several minutes progress (or hundreds of years; time is tricky without moving atoms to measure).

"Where could he be? Wilkes is usually quite on top of these things. I suppose I must take care of lights myself." 

Feigns rising and walking, "Hmm, I should be to the wall by now? Maybe I got myself turned around."

Turning, "I do declare, I cannot seem to find the wall. I better just go back to my chair and have a sit down until Wilkes comes back this way. He's probably just stepped out to get that new box of cigars I asked him to pick up for me."

"Confound it all. Now I cannot find my chair. Blast this darkness. Where is Wilkes? WILKES!! I need you right now, Wilkes!

Several more minutes, days, years, eons, (the terms are more or less meaningless now) "Wilkes?! Wilkes?" 

Whimpering, "God, where is Wilkes?"

On the Intellectual Life

The intellectual life is such a beautiful and rewarding aspect of our human lives and yet it is so easy to let it fall to the wayside, especially once we leave the formal classroom setting. I am by no means a great intellectual, but I hope I am at least a reasonable intellectual. I have put much thought to the matter of how too pursue further intellectual studies without paying for classes, neglecting my family or becoming a philosophy professor (which I am not at all qualified to be). I have come up with a few ways that  have been quite rewarding for the time and effort put into them. 

Mark Twain once (or possibly many times) said, "I have never let my schooling interfere with my education."  I held strictly to that rule all through my formal education by frequently immersing myself in studies that interested me as a supplement to what I was required to study. I must confess that sometimes  I even pursued my own interests instead of what I was required to study. One practice I used all throughout college was to move slowly but constantly through the works of the late and esteemed G. K. Chesterton. I have not come close to reading even half of what he has written, but I have a good start on his work. This is a practice I have tried to maintain out here in the world of work. Admittedly I might go several weeks without this reading but I always come back to it and it has provide me much insight into my own life. 

Almost two years ago a good friend of mine, a homeschooling mother, approached my wife and me asking us to lead a discussion group for highschoolers on A Tale of Two Cities by the great Charles Dickens. We accepted and lead a small group of eight or nine students through this great work. I had never read this book when I was asked but read it several times to prepare myself for the seminar. We both enjoyed teaching the group so much that the next year we lead seminar on english poetry and will soon be starting a seminar on Dracula and Frankenstein. 

My last method was more or less handed to me by my brother in law who lent me a couple of audio books just after I had purchased my iPhone. When I am working with wood I am usually working alone and there is much time spent in repetitive tasks such as sanding or staining during which I can listen with quite a bit of my attention on the audio book. To be fair I listen to quite a bit of fiction, but I also engage regularly with the classics or philosophical works. Most recently I listened to Plato's Dialogue Pheado. I get most of the audiobooks free off of iTunes in the Podcasts section or in the iTunes U section. Many of the books are from librivox, which is also in the iTunes Podcasts section.

I have enjoyed getting to continue my intellectual life and look forward to many more books and discussions. 

A New Side of the City

As this blog is vaquely dedicated to seeing the world through new eyes I thought that I would give a shout out to my friend, deProfundis and his wife who have started the blog Our Live Active Culture. There goal is to spend as little money as possible this month. Their methods, which will replace money, are bartering, dumpster diving, picking their friends minds for ideas, etc (possibly even like the library and stuff too, I just haven't heard them mention it).

It's an interesting idea and the goal is just to make better use of the resources already available to them. It causes one to change the way he looks at everyday things. My own personal contribution was telling deProfundis to check in rollaway dumpsters on building sites for lumber. 

So nothing to profound this week but do check out their blog and share any ideas you have with them.

For a Button

Gared was tired the night that it had happened. It was night and the eight and a half hours he had spent at his workstation were taking their toll. He had had a good dinner and it was past ten but still he couldn't sleep. He had been lying in bed for nearly a half hour, uncomfortable, tossing this way and that.

Gared didn't normally have problems sleeping, but something about this night just would not let him sleep. Just after he had laid down he had thought he heard gentle footsteps in his studio apartment. He flipped the lamp near his head on and glanced around the room. Nothing, or rather nobody was there. He let his eyes drift across his meagere belongings, from his half empty book shelf to the heap of juggling things laying in the corner by the door. Nothing was out of place.

Gared turned the light back off. As his eyes readjusted to the darkness he realized just how bright the night was. The full moon was peaking through the crack where the curtains joined. Unable to keep his eyes shut he opened them and ran them round his room again. In the moonlight nothing looked in place. The book case looked mostly empty, the heap of juggling things filled too much of the floor by the door.

Closing his eyes again Gared concentrated on his breathing. Several minutes went by, sleep was nearing. A single footstep landed on the oak floor. He was certain he had heard it. He started to open his eyes, slowly, and not fully. He didn't see anything immediately. He slowly changed his gaze from the bookcase to the heap of Juggling things. He saw nothing.

Gared lay, still, staring, tired of trying to sleep. Sleep must have caught up eventually because the next thing he knew he was opening his eyes. It was still night. Judging from the light in the room it was not much later than when he last remembered. His eyes where still on the the heap of juggling things, but there was something else there, no, someone else. He was about to call out when the figure straightened out it's stance. It was, a child. It seemed to have picked up his juggling balls.

"What are you doing here?"

The child made no response, but took the balls and put them on an empty the shelf. When she turned back to the heap of juggling things he could see that the child was a girl. She was very young, maybe four at the oldest. Her brown curls framed a pretty little face that manifested a hint of autism. She continued moving his heap from were he had left it to the shelf.

"What is your name? Where are your parents?"

The girl still continued without awknowledging Gared or his questions. She simply continued moving his things onto the shelf. When she had cleared the floor she got on her hands and knees and started inspecting the floor and the baseboard.

"What are you looking for?"

She didn't seem to respond at first, but then in a moment she pointed at something. Gared could not see anything from his bed so he got up and moved toward her. As he did the night air struck him with it's sobering rationality like a bucket of cold water in the morning. Who was this child? Why didn't she respond? What was she doing? Why wasn't he panicked about having an intruder? Why was it so freezing around this child?

The solution leaped to the front of Gared's mind where he beat it back not daring to think of ghosts or their kin. He shuddered. It really was cold. Yet the child seemed to have no interest in him. She hadn't even indicted that she knew he was present. She seemed interested in something else entirely.

Gared got down on his knees and crawled next to her, putting his face at the same level as hers. He gazed down to where her finger pointed. He didn't see anything. It was just where the floor and the baseboard met. He kept looking. He moved himself so as to let more moonlight on the space he was gazing at, but careful to not come in contact with the child.

As Gared moved a beam of light struck something. He could almost make it out. It looked like there was a button stuck between the baseboard and the floor.

Gared moved closer, still trying to let light in on the object. It was a button. That is what the girl was looking at. He tried to get a hold of it but found is was shoved too far under the baseboard for his fingers to get a hold of it.

Gared got up and went to the cabinet with his silverware and found two butter knives which he took back and used them to pry the baseboard up and wiggle the button out. It popped out, and he only had a second to see that it was a shiny silver button with a knot design on it before the girl had snatched it up. Her face wore a smile of absolute joy and she danced in a little circle and was gone. And the button fell to the floor.

Gared was left in utter amazement, utterly alone in his apartment. He felt silly holding the butter knifes and returned them to his drawer before crawling back into his bed. Instantly sleep found him.

The next morning he met his landlord on the stairs. There were tears in the landlords eyes, though he was trying to stay composed.

"Is something the matter?" Gared spoke out, hoping to comfort the man.

"Indeed there is. I just got a phone call. It was from Lydia the previous occupant in your apartment. She is a single mother, she has the most darling little girl you could imagine, Gracie was her name. She had little brown curls and the most lovely smile. Lydia tried hard to be a good mother and so she was but it is a difficult thing being a single mother even to a normal child. I remember the day they were moving out, Lydia yelled at Gracie for losing a button from her shawl, but that was the only time I remember her yelling. Oh but..." He trailed off trying not to lose his composure.

After a few deep breaths the landlord closed his eyes and continued, "Lydia called to tell me that Gracie died yesterday. She had a heart condition from birth and something went wrong with it yesterday, and well, the world is a sadder place for it now. Now thank you for you're concern but I best be going. I'm going to need a good long cry before I can feel better."

"Will you be going to the funeral," Gared asked.

"Indeed I will, I wouldn't miss it." the landlord reproached.

Gared pulled the button from his pocket and handed it to the landlord, "I want you to give this to Lydia, tell her Gracie found it for her."

Gared walked away leaving the landlord staring at the button in utter amazement.

The Examine (a poem)

He just sits there

   silent staring

at the world,

   yet uncaring.

Without movement,

   without motion,

eyes just drifting

      like the the Ocean.

I found him there

   when I came in,

in your chair 

he is stayin'

Patchwork ghoul

of friends I knew nought,

faces I once passed

but then sought,

Who begged for bread 

and got not rock,

nor coin, nor crumb

from charity locked.

Who asked for smile,

eyes and a laugh,

received blank stare

from this dead wraith

Under the faces,

ever changing,

stays the beast

motionless remaining

Whose eyes pleaded 

for attention.

Who reached out 

with loving intention.

Holding me 

within your arms,

fighting off

all that could harm.

Yet pushed away 

by some great ego

Abandoned

as off I go.

Asking for but

faith to atone

within hearts fleshy

finding only stone,

Uncircumcised,

dead.

Always a statue

still unmoved.

Thy hands spread wide

east and west encompass

spill thy blood

on stone and on rock.

Still accursed,

 I wander below,

I long for hope,

which from your side does flow.

Patience Grasshopper!!!

I have a love for Kung Fu movies. They are fascinating because although they all have the same plot, and the same lines, and, to an untrained American eye, the same actors; they are never the same movie. Some of the best and worst movies I have ever seen are Kung Fu movies, and in most Kung Fu movies there is this scene.

Master: Where are you going, grasshopper?
Hero in training: To avenge my (Father, mother, brother, sister, honor, school).
Master: You are not ready, you must learn patience, grasshopper.
Hero in training: You don't understand, how can I stay here and do nothing knowing that this crime will go unavenged.
Master: I will not stop you if you attempt to leave but know that if you leave now you will be on your own for this battle.

The hero in training then goes out, confronts his enemy, loses and spends years in shame in some small village where nobody knows him, until one day everything comes together, his training has been completed, and his enemy is delivered into his power and he begins to understand the value of patience. 

This struck me because I have no patience for self discipline. I desire to learn Kung Fu the way Keanu Reeves did in the Matrix, transferred straight to the brain. As a result I never learn any Kung Fu and just play Kung Fu games on whatever game console happens to be available at the time. And I have no patience anywhere in my life. When an email doesn't load in .03 seconds, I am sitting there thinking, "come on, it's not that big a file." I'll be impatient at Taco Bell because it takes them three minutes to throw my tacos together. I don't seem to learn.

And it really is the better things in life that take time. When I have taken time to research a product and its competitors I am always much more satisfied then when I just grab something because it's cool or I need it now, even if I would end up with the same product in the end. Any time I receive a piece of snail mail I feel honoured and have an immense pleasure reading it (not junk mail or bills but real mail from a real person). When I write a letter I always feel like I've done so much more than when I just throw an email together. When I eat a brownie slowly I enjoy it more than when I just pound three down in a couple of minutes. And even knowing all this I still want it all and fast. My stomach rules me to desire shear quantity and speed over any real quality (I am speaking of the stomach as the controller of the sense appetites).

It is speed our culture demands and trains us for; the mass production and use of consumer junk. That makes one of the greatest counter cultural things we might participate in the virtue of Patience. 

Contemplation and Stoplights

     Stopping at stoplights is a fascinating experience. You're cruising along and then all of a sudden, stop. An interruption in your day. It is an inevitable experience when driving and yet it always feels as if you are forced to stop against your well. And people use stoplights differently. Stereotypical traffic light activities are eating, drinking and putting on makeup. One activity I have recently acquired is playing with my son or giving him food or water. The most fascinating thing I have ever seen was a man practicing his trumpet. You can just imagine the thoughts going through his head, "I'm not gonna let these lights cause me to miss my time practicing". 

       Frequently I daydream. I look at the people in the cars around me. The only thing in common between us is this particular stop light. In those people's faces are all kinds of emotions displayed. The focused eyes and set jaws, I imagine that she needs to get twenty things done in the next hour. The oblivious head tilting is indicative that the man is obviously enjoying his phone conversation more than driving. Occasionally I see someone in tears. This is powerful and moving. I don't know what caused those tears in the woman's eyes, but something has touched her deeply. That knowledge causes me to enter into my own meditation. I mummer quick prayer of thanksgiving for all that his been done for me and ask for consolation for the woman crying. It is then while stopped at that light, offering the only thing I could for someone, I don't and can't possibly know, that the stoplight becomes a moment of contemplation. The heart is somehow left exposed, and it is overwhelmed by the goodness of God. 

         This practice of daydreaming has, I think, made me a more peaceful driver. Having those little insights into the lives of those others on the road (whether the insights are real or imagined) turns a totally impersonal encounter into some small encounter with the other. 

Goodness in the Modern World

   There are many people who are constantly at odds with the world in which we live. I happen to be one of those people. Another group of those people is Jehovah (or Elohim Adonai) Witnesses. We share little in common. Recently I have been in contact with a number of the before mentioned Witnesses and one thing in particular has struck me about them. They seem to see nothing good in the world, which has left me seeing anew all the good that there are.

   Disasters in and of themselves are not good, but with each disaster that befalls our world we become witness to an amazing outpouring of charity. Not, Robin Hooded, forced redistribution charity, but real and authentic concern for the well being of those affected. Food, medical supplies, and rebuilding materials are shipped to the needy area from those who choose to help them. And an amazing amount of people choose to help them.

   Architecture seems to have taken a turn for the worse. The Denver art Museum looks like a freeze of the explosion of the USS Enterprise. But stop and turn a contemplative eye upon it. While the external beauty may be lacking, the rules of nature were still followed. The internal structure is sound. Whatever beams and pieces were used to bear weight and to hold the walls in obtuse and acute angles to ground, were obviously calculated correctly. The engineering and construction skills necessary to make a building like that work are thrilling to consider.

   Communication has been accused of becoming to fast and impersonal. Yet, do to the miracle of the internet and Skype, a very good friend of mine, Fr. Charles Joseph Dygert, was able to allow his Grandparents to view his first  Mass as it happened even though they were unable to attend. I am able to stay in close conversation with my wife through text messaging and phone calls. And best of all I am able to inspire all of you with my brilliant thoughts.

   People are still seeking to be made known to each other in a personal way. Many people fail or try the wrong methods but we still seek and attempt to be known by the other. Some have never experienced an authentic relationship, but they still desire it. It is written in our very being and it is very good.

Of Concrete and Grass

I have been fascinated of late with a bizarre institution of the modern culture (it may go back quite a while but I have no desire to investigate how far). It is the institution of concrete walking paths through grassy fields. This is probably the most universal movement in our culture and so possibly the foundation of the rest of the culture. It strikes me for this reason. I like concrete for foundations, roads, and other utilitarian things (although even occasionally in jewelry), and I like walking on grass. If I were allowed to create my own version I would walk on grass and look at other plants whose design and life are much more dynamic than grass. The concrete would be under my house and between it's bricks. This I think would be a positive improvement for several reasons.

First, concrete is very hard, I have had the opportunity of sleeping on concrete on occasion and I have decided that it is the hardest substance I have every slept on. In relation to this, there are an enormous amount of advertisements which offer a relief to back pain. I would advertise my grass paths as another relief to back pain.

The other plants which I would grow in place of the vast expanse of grass would be far more clear in their purpose than grass is. With grass it is necessary to post little signs which read "please keep off the grass". If only the walkways of grass were lined with roses and Iris and a myriad of different bushes those signs would no longer be necessary. There are few people aside from those striving to master their purity who prefer walking through the rose bush to the grass walkway.

Finally, the reduction of concrete would, if I understand at least one of the reasons city streets get so much hotter then fields, reduce fatigue of those who walked, simply be being a few degrees cooler.

I am sure that many reasons can be given against my grass walkways, primarily mud, worn out grass, and an inordinate amount of places for small children to hide (this is worse to some than small children walking on grass). Those, I think, could be dealt with easily for the benefit of all.

Manalive

“Man found alive with two legs” is a telegram sent from one Innocent Smith to an old college friend Arthur Inglewood in G.K. Chesterton’s fiction piece titled Manalive. Innocent Smith is a sane man who has discovered that the key to keeping existence new and exciting is to depart from all that he loves for some period of time inorder to return to it anew. The telegram itself is never specifically explained but might have been the result of having tied up his legs, and after hobbling about on his knees for a day and he is exhilarated at having rediscovered the ability to walk and run and kick once again.

This idea is prevalent in much of Chesterton’s writing from one of his earliest works, Orthodoxy when he speaks of the youthfulness of God, who, like a child playing a game cries, “do it again”, but to the sun to rise again and for the grass to grow again. He creates daisies like a child will draw flower after flower, simple because he enjoys creating them. It is by growing old in sin that we grow tired of these things.

Nearly a year ago I asked a man I was working with at the time if he were going to have any fun that weekend. He replied something along the lines of, with a wife and child he was no longer able to do fun things.  At the time I laughed it off with him, but later as I considered those words I was saddened by them. That is indeed a popular sentiment at least in the current media; television sitcoms especially hold those tenants.

I didn’t get married to no longer have fun. I got married because I wanted someone to share all the fun with (I know there is suffering in marriage, I am not addressing that right now). The tale of Manalive offers something greater. It claims that you can have all the fun. Innocent Smith will break into his own house and steal his own wine. He will elope with his wife, a thousand times and a thousand different ways. He does this because he remains in love with her enough to pursue her time and time again, and pursues her time and time again, in order to remain in love with her. In this way he can do things that look from an outward observer to be the sins of adultery and stealing, but these actions, because it is with his wife and his house, are perfectly innocent.

Deo Gratias

In Defense of the Low Mass

I do not normally attend the Extraordinary form of the Latin Mass (aka the Tridentine Mass), but I do have a great love and respect for it. Most people I speak to about the Extraordinary form talk about how they enjoy the music and rites used for the High Mass. I do love those things, but I actually prefer the Low Mass. I love the Low Mass primarily for two reasons; the mystery and the silence.

The documents of the Second Vatican council call for a full, active (or actual depending on the translation) participation of the laity in the Mass. Keeping that in mind let us consider the Mass. The Mass is the Rite in which we celebrate the sacramental Mystery of the Eucharist. Mystery in the sacraments is not the same as in a mystery novel. In a mystery novel there is a specific mystery which must be understood and then solved. The mystery of a sacrament cannot be understood or solved, just deepened. Many people will say that they enjoy knowing what is going on in the english Novus Ordo Mass, but no one can know what is going on in Mass. The Church speaks of the Mass as a re-presentation of the mystery of Christ's death on Calvary. The Mass has been described as a participation in the Liturgy of Heaven that St. John describes in the book of Revelation. In the Eucharist, the Church believes that Jesus Christ is present under the form of Bread and Wine, as he said at the last supper, "This is my Body, This is the Cup of the New Covenant in my Blood". These are not things to say, "I understand", but rather, "I enter in to this mystery". It takes effort to follow the Low Mass in the Missal. To keep pace, and to enter into the prayers demands full attention and  active participation. As the priest whispers the prayers, the mind naturally feels drawn into a mystery, a secret, and a thing not easily known. In that way the Low Mass does feel like a mystery novel. The priest and the alter server are participating in an act that is secretive and we are attempting to break into that mystery without disturbing it. 

The silence in the low Mass, is for me, the best part. Blessed John Paul II in the Theology of the Body, speaks of the love between a man and his wife, as an image of the Trinity. There is an aspect of that love I want to engage, and that is silent whispers. When I am with friends I am usually engaged in conversation, when i am praying privately I usually pray in silence, but with my wife I have both times of conversation and of silence. I also sometimes have a whispered conversation with her, and that is an intimate conversation. The silent whisperings of the Low Mass convey a similar intimacy for me. When I receive the Eucharist, I am receiving Christ into myself, not in a sexual way, but in a profoundly unitive manner. While the Low Mass is still public worship it becomes at the same time personal and contemplative. 

I am quite thankful for our Holy Father Benedict XVI for the permissions granted in the Motu Proprio allowing wider usage of the Extraordinary form. I encourage everyone to attend the Extraordinary Form Mass at least a few times (expect to be confused the first several times if you've never been before, but persevere) in order to better understand even the Novus Ordo Mass. Go and experience the music and the beautiful liturgy of the High Mass, but do not neglect the small wonders of the Low Mass.

In omne, Deo Gratias.

J.R.R. Tolkien, The lord of the words

A couple of months ago I reread The Eye of the World, by Robert Jordan (who is a good author). It is a book of the fantasy genre that I enjoy and have enjoyed several times (I'm guessing four or five times), but as I read it this time I noticed that I was anticipating what I was reading. I don't mean just story line, but even sentences and phrases, or even whole paragraphs. As a result it became more tedious to read and began to lose some of the enjoyment I have taken from it previously. 

This month I have been rereading that masterpiece of fantasy, The Lord of the Rings, by J.R.R Tolkien. This is another book I have reread several times (probably seven or eight times). This book I discovered still has not become predictable. The mastery Tolkien has over words is phenomenal. The result being that while I know the general story (as any should who has read a book that many times) the lines of prose, the phrases and the paragraphs are new to me still, and it is wonderful. 

For instance in each book there is a scene where the characters are traveling by boat down the river and encounter immense ancient statues flanking the river. Jordan gives a description of what is seen and the mind visualizes that.  Tolkien on the other hand gives a bit of description and then gives a history and impact of the statues on the characters and the mind explodes in wonder.

Tolkien was a master of language. He created several languages: at least two elvish tongues, plus the twisted elvish of Mordor, and also the language of the dwarves. I don't know that he completed the Entish language, but it was a least started. He was fluent in middle english, which is unreadable to the students of modern english. He was fluent in old norse, and several others languages. His knowledge wasn't just in the writing but in the very sounds of language. The names of Characters and places where chosen to evoke different ideas in the reader. The dwarf names are short and tend toward guttural sounds: Gimli and Gloin. The Elvish names a lofty with lots of "ah" and "eh" to slow down the reader: Legolas, Elrond, Galadreil, Celeborn. The Hobbit names even when complex shorten to match the character: Meriadoc to Merry, Peregrin to Pippin, or just Frodo, Bilbo, and Sam. This is just to give a few examples.

One last thing I'ld like to mention is the poems. The first time I read The Lord of the Rings in middle school I skipped, probably, all of the poems. Of course at the time I did not know anything about poetry and all I was really interested was plot. Now I read the poetry. It is some of the best poetry I have ever read.  Aragorn and Legolas compose a poem after Boromir dies that is heart wrenching, absolutely wonderful. If I remember correctly the poem is in the second chapter of The Two Towers. 

If you have not read this book I encourage you try it out. If you have seen the movies and think you don't have to read the books you are sadly mistaken. The movies have the plot, but the real brilliance is the language and the way it is written. If you have read this book, return to it again. It is better with each read, and this time read the poems, and read them aloud.

Pax Tecum