Book 1, The Wind in the Willows

I was recently challenged on facebook to post ten all-time favorite books that really made an impact on you. So here it goes, ten books that Erik thinks are worth the time he spent with them.

My first choice is “The Wind and the Willows” by Kenneth Grahame. I love this book. I have loved it since my childhood. My mother read it aloud every spring for as long as I can remember. I have read it aloud to my kids so many times I couldn’t count the number of times I've read it.. The funny thing about this book is that I’m not sure that I have ever read it silently. 

I’ll grant that it has a whole onslaught of positive emotional quality for me but aside from that I find it be a delightful book. The dialogue among the animals is terrific and the story line switches between the quite life of the river to the chaotic adventures of Mr. Toad who is very much a modernist. The Mole, Badger and Water rat’s growing friendship and all of their concern for the Toad is picture of many friendships. Then the climax, The Battle of Toad Hall, finds the four friends driving out the weasels and stoats and is the stuff of which dreams are made. 

Sprinkled throughout the book are quite a few excellent poems, from "The Ducks Ditty", to "When the Toad Came Home". Each poem is a different style of poem from the others and each serves it’s place in the book and each can stand alone as just a poem. 

In addition to the enjoyable story, many different artist have illustrated this book. We have several different editions of the book just for the unique art work in each edition and are currently enjoying the illustrations of David Petersen, the creator of the Mouse Guard series. 

Happy reading.

The Jesus Prayer

There it is, The Jesus Prayer. The Jesus prayer has its origins in the gospels, Luke chapter 18. Jesus tells a parable about a publican (tax collector) and a Pharisee praying in the synagogue. Jesus gives us a glance into the two different prayers that are being prayed and the the publican's prayer is "God, be merciful to me a sinner." 

This prayer is to the Eastern Catholics about what the Hail Mary is to Western Catholics. In The Pilgrim's Tale the Jesus prayer is exemplified in the life of a pilgrim who desires to live out the command, pray always. He is told to pray the Jesus Prayer, daily increasing the number of times which he prays it, the goal being for him to be always praying it, almost like a spiritual breathing. 

This is a prayer I have been turning to with an increasing frequency, partially because it's short. But also because I have been realizing how appropriate a statement and response it is to nearly everything the world sends at us. In The Secret of Father Brown, G. K. Chesterton reveals that the reason Fr. Brown can solve the many and varied criminal mysteries with which he is confronted is simply because he thinks how he himself would commit that crime. He knows that he is quite as capable of any of the sins as any other. He has heard countless sinners confessing countless sins and he knows that it is simply the grace of God that holds him. 

This understanding is absolutely vital to the christian life. When we stand in line for confession or "The sinners line" as a good friend likes to call it we are reminded of our own faults and weaknesses and that awareness is the beginning of the constant conversion to which we are called. Turning and turning again to Jesus and saying "Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on me a sinner." 

When we hear of grave evil in the world it is easy to take the side of the pharisee and say, God I thank you that I am not like other men. This is not true, I am one of those of fall and fail daily, who must always be calling out "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner."

Pray it, post it, share it.

Lord have Mercy

Speaks for itself. Pray it, share it.

In Defensione Papuri

The following article was first written for a Magazine called "Renovare" produced and read by a small group of my friends. The goal of the Renovare was to foster intellectual writing and discussion beyond the classroom. It also afforded us the opportunity to write on subjects beyond the scope of any individual class and draw from all that we had learned instead of just showing what we had learned for a specific subject. This magazine mostly dissolved after I left seminary allow there have been occasional attempts to revive it. 

“In the Beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God.” John 1: 1

The question has been asked of me if Renovare should be set up like a blog. I answer, No.

Words are very powerful and delicate. In the beginning Adam named the creatures. He gave audio symbols to the objects of the word. Words have become the symbols of people, places, things, ideas and actions. They are used for conveying ideas, specifying, constructing and anything else we think. And the words themselves are combinations of other symbols, either letters or characters, depending on the language.

Words are greater then just symbols. Take the instance of a yellow sign with a black arrow bending to the left. This symbol indicates that the road curves to the left. This sign, while fulfilling its function, does not transcend itself, but rather remains as its own image in one’s mind totally apart from the road and the curve. Words transcend the symbols of which they are constructed. If I were to write, “He came to the point where the road curved left.” Anyone who knew the meaning of those words would have an image of that scene without visualizing in that image any of the symbols used in the sentence. Instead he would pull from his universal ideas of road, curve, and left to create the image.

I have even heard speculation combining Plato’s idea of remembrance (as opposed to learning) and the time before Babel. The argument followed that if two people separately encountered the same unnamed object they would remember it to have the same name. A second theory I find more satisfying and equally improvable is that the first language of man, the language spoken in the Garden, was perfectly fitting between symbol and object, thus achieving a similar naming of objects as the first theory.

There have been people throughout history who have sought similar perfection between symbol and object; in English, Shakespeare and Tolkien; in Spanish, St. John of the Cross; in Italian, Dante Alighieri, in Latin, Virgil; and in Greek, Homer (and this just names a few), and all poets. I will take the example of J.R.R. Tolkien, as I am most familiar with his works. When he wrote, and in particularly when he chose names, he sought names that described the person simply by the sound of the word. The elves for instance all have tall sounding names; Elrond, Galadriel, Celeborn, and Legolas. The ‘el’, ‘ele’, and the ‘le’ all have a tall feeling as the sound seems to move upward off the tongue and slow the pronunciation down to give them an elevated tone in the way they are spoken (note the ‘ele’ of elevated). Even the shorter elf names such as Elrond sound longer and taller then the dwarf names: Gimili, Dwalin, Balin, Kili, Fili, Dori, Nori, Ori, Oin, Gloin,Bifur, Bofur, Bombur and Thorin. There are lots of ‘i’ and ‘or’ and none of the names are longer than two syllables. Notice that the longest name to pronounce is Thorin who is also the dwarf of the most importance in The Hobbit. I would continue with other examples such as Tom Bombadil, Aragon, and Treebeard (Fangorn in Elvish) except I fear none of the readers would continue on with me.

What the reader is probably wondering is what the fantastic symbols conveyed by words and sounds has to do with whether or not this publication should be a blog? The answer is in the symbolism of conveying words. The Jewish people wrote their scriptures without vowels and thus part of the male coming of age was the memorization of the scriptures. They did this because they believed the scripture to belong to the whole people. They were not allowed or able to read scripture correctly alone, but rather only in public where the pronunciation and proper meaning of the words could be corrected by the others. Also, their scriptures, originally and still for liturgical purposes, were written on scrolls. This is done so that no part can be skipped like in a book were one can flip to the last chapter, or an article were he can browse to the concluding paragraph.

In all illiterate cultures stories are told to children. They are stories of heroes and villains, the history of their people. They are the stories more enlightened cultures call fairy tales, myths, and religious legends. The village elders, the priests, the shamans, the medicine men, the Rabbis, the philosophers, the poets, the judges, the bards (who in Ireland held more power then the kings), the prophets, the padrinos and the fathers retell these stories. It is these stories that become the cultural identity of the youth and foster in them their sense of nation, village, tribe, and family. As men became more and more literate they wrote down those stories until our present times. Now the best to be hoped for is a mother or a teacher reading those stories to the child. Frequently the child is simply given the book and left to discover the stories by himself but the book simply goes on the shelf with other books in immaculate condition he has been given and the television is turned on to some Disney soft-core pornography with a story so unlike the tale it is name after that there remains no similarity except some of the characters names (I cite specifically, The Little Mermaid, great story, read it). All the national identity, psychological lessons on what it means to be human, knowledge of the good of the tribe and the family are left unfilled. They are unfilled not because the story is unfamiliar but rather because of the medium in which they encounter the story. A story told by a father has a far greater effect on the mind of the child than even a story read aloud, and is certainly far more profound the a televised complete image. That unfilled space then gets filled as life goes by with pulp fiction, romance novals, technological garble or worse, the gossip of actors and sportstars in Entertainment Weekly and Us magazines.

There are still places where words seek to convey their meaning in the method of telling. Like the Jewish scrolls of the Torah, we Catholics have a special book for the Gospels (although frequently attacked by hideous 70’s minimalist designs). The Priest announces the readings in special way, and in some strange places candles and incense might even accompany the reading. All these symbols are attempting to set apart and herald as important the words and reading of the Gospel.

Most other areas of culture abuse words. Advertisements use profound words such as “awesome”, “best”, and “perfect” to describe rather lame products. The news media uses words to frighten or shock people in an attempt to increase their viewers. The modern anti-poet chooses words to un-rhythm, un-love and un-beautify the universe. On computer and portable device screens men pour through thousands of words a minute, simply searching out the phrase or word desired. Blogs pour out in reaction to the latest news and are read and replaced by other news stories and blogs or lewd pictures.

Of course there are numerous counter examples; Zenit, Life Site News and even Snow White (who says her prayers in the original Disney production). Likewise, illiteracy has many problems of its own, the least of which is an English speaker trying to play a Japanese computer game. Our own times hold many good blogs, movies, books, magazines, and possibly even a good advertisement (the Jamison’s commercial featuring the Latin scholar comes to mind).

Renovare should continue as a publication for several reasons. The first is to give it a sense of permanence as a connection to the Church that it is written for, as that Church shall prevail against the gates of Hell. The second is to give us a chance for contemplation. Any article I’ve read on the computer that I’ve desired to contemplate, I have printed. Third, the discussion we seek to foster is not the discussion in the comments at the bottom of a blog which frequently result in YELLING and calling names, but rather it should be the discussion of intelligent men in a respectful fashion (with perhaps an occasional name being called if it is done in a lighthearted manner between friends). Fourth (and last for the purposes of this article), by using higher quality papers and thoughtful formats it draws the reader to remember that he is an incarnate being who has flesh as well as the mind and that the flesh was important enough for God to take on a body Himself and be put to death to redeem us as incarnate beings of soul and flesh. 

The Armor of God

St. Paul in the sixth chapter of his letter to the Ephesian counsels us to put on the Armor of God. He then goes on to list each piece of armor. At first it may appear to simply be a list but there is a real order which follows in a very specific way christian life. Their are six parts of the armor; belt, breastplate, footwear, shield, helmet, and sword.

First is the belt, having girded your loins with Truth. The loins represent our bodily appetites, and most literally our sexual appetites. Sexual sins are quite easy to fall into yet they can be very easily hidden. Masturbation, pornography, contraception and most others short of public displays and orgies are private with the effects only directly affecting oneself and one's spouse. Paul doesn't say to eliminatethe loin but simply to gird the loin with truth. I'll come back to this as foundational after I have spoke on the others.

Having put on the Breastplate of Righteousness. The Breastplate relates to our public conduct. This is where the life of virtue is put to the test. It is the righteous man who acts prudently (not prudishly) in the world. He is just in his dealings with his fellow man and conducts his affairs with dignity and honour. Slow to anger, but flashing with a righteous anger in the face of injustice.  

Having shod your feet with the equipment of the Gospel of Peace. It is the gospel than, that moves the feet. Our action and progress through the world is order toward the proclamation of the gospel. It is the furthering of that gospel that compels us to act rightly. The gospel then is the reason for our right action.

Taking the Shield of faith, with which you can quench all the flaming darts of the evil one. When we preach the gospel the devil attacks us to beat us back into silent submission. It is our faith that guards against his flaming darts. We preach Christ and him crucified a stumbling block to the Jews and scandal to the Gentiles. It is faith in him crucified that encourages us to continue on. 

Take the helmet of salvation. When we resist satan he changes tactics and one of his most powerful attacks is against our intellect. There are many intellectual faults, the one I will suggest here is Intellectual pride. We are tempted to think, "look at this great knowledge I have come to. Look at how well I can articulate the gospel and how many hear and believe what I say." Thus we distance ourself from Christ. But salvation is the guard against such thoughts. I myself have the same need of salvation that every other man has. My thoughts, my insight are all only gifts from God and even my very intellect is a gift resulting from how God knit me together in my mothers womb. 

The Sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God. Et verbum caro factum est, St. John tells us in the prologue to his gospel. The Sword that we wield is quiet literally Jesus himself. Jesus is the word of God whom we call on to fight against the powers, the principalities, the world rulers of this present darkness, and the spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places. 

Let's return the loins girded with truth. We have seen how fundamental and foundational this first garment is with the recent priest scandals relating to child abuse. These priests had the other five parts of armor. They celebrated Mass, making the sword of the spirit present in the Eucharist. They had on the helmet of salvation to defend against intellectual pride. They had faith to defend them against the spiritual snares of the devil. They were moved to preach the gospel. They had a breastplate of good works and virtues in the public eye. All this they had but they did not first gird themselves with truth and even though this was a private sin, when sin of sexual abuse came into the light, it showed that they had failed to protect the first and most intimate manhood. Without truth protecting their manhood all satan had to do to make all their other works infertile was to attack their manhood. And we see that all those things that should have been good works for the building of the kingdom, because of this infertility actually harmed the kingdom they claimed to be helping.

The Chicken or the Egg

I heard a news headline on the radio yesterday which ran much to this effect, "New study finds that storytelling is therapeutic." My first reaction was something like, "huh, they finally figured that out." but with a more negative bent. It frustrated me because I frequently see this inversion of facts to make it sound as if they newer institution has the strength over the older. This article ought to have read something to the effect that therapy has finally realized that storytelling is actually a more human and natural activity than therapy.  

But why do I care about this little phrase? It is that subtle twisting. Storytelling isn't therapeutic, it is simply human. My two year old son knows that storytelling is human. He knows that it is enjoyable, regardless of whether it is about mom and dad or the scary ogre. He even finds it enjoyable when he himself is the both the storyteller and the audience. My son would not find therapy enjoyable because it is not human. 

We see this twisted logic all through out society. Take for instance the food and health regulations for public establishments. They include rules like there must be less than such and such % of rat feces in the food being sold by this or that company. That is a great rule but this is where the problem lies. There are schools now that don't allow their students to bring in homemade treats to share with the class because the home kitchen has not been approved by a health and safety inspector, forgetting that a mother is not going to allow any rat feces in her food. The entire reason there are food and health regulations isn't because they are the bottom line but because home is bottom line and business are not actually involved in making food but rather in making profits and therefore must be held to a standard that their food cannot go below. 

Cosmic Mystery Vs. Cosmic Horror

Throughout the last year I have found myself drawn into the writings of some of the masters of horror, particularly those from the 19th century and early 20th Century. These authors include Robert E. Howard, Arthur Machen, Ambrose Bierce, Saki and of course H.P. Lovecraft. The stories told intrigue me greatly. One of the greatest intrigues was that the really didn't horrify me. Now to be fair their are some stories that make my flesh crawl but horror, such as I remember as a child, I have not encountered in their work. 

Just recently I finished an essay by H.P. Lovecraft, Supernatural Horror in Literature. In this essay is outlined much of the developement of horror especially from the 18th century through Lovecraft's own time. But there is a line in it that particularly struck me, "It may well be remarked here that occult believers are probably  less effective than materialists in delineating the spectral and the fantastic, since to them the phantom world is so commonplace a reality that they tend to refer to it with less awe, remoteness, and impressiveness than do those who see in it an absolute and stupendous violation of the natural order." I would not consider myself an occultist and admit that my dealing with those subjects have been primarily through religious authors who warn against such practices. I believe then that the failure of much of this horror  to make an impression on me is a result of being religious. 

I knew the story of Adam and Eve and of the temptation by satan before I was five. St. Michael the Archangel has been a friend and intercessor to me from time before my remembrance. That there are cosmic forces around us that defy our definitions is no real surprise to me but rather an exploration in that deep mystery which I have played in since my youth. The horror that strikes me in these writings is that many of the authors refuse to allow any good cosmic powers. Lovecraft's characters mostly end up in a madhouse shocked by the horror that they have seen. The catholic saints ponder in their hearts the mystery they have witnessed.

St. Anthony of the Desert (circa A.D. 300) and St. John Vianney (A.D. 1786-1859) both battled with demons who physically manifested themselves. Exorcism of demons has had a place throughout the bible and even Jesus and the Apostles exorcised demons. There are still cases of exorcism throughout the world today. But these are just the showy examples of man's interaction with the supernatural.

Far more important to me is the reality of Divine Providence. I have visited New York City once. I was there for three days. On Monday morning we went to see the World Trade Center site which is a tourist area. As we turned the corner to arrive at the site we walked into a friend of mine from seminary and his family. When you start considering the odds of that encounter it boggles the mind. If they had been heading toward a coffee shop in the other direction or if we had missed the subway train and had taken the next train, that encounter would have never happened.

Authors cannot get away from Divine Providence. In every story I have read the author acts as a maker of providence. Only some chance encounter or a specific meeting sets in motion the entire set of events and without which the entire story would not exist. Some authors act as an antagonistic worker of providence but the thread of providence is still there.

Mystery is how the Christian explains it, but when someone, who has no idea of a good God, encounters these same themes, they encounter horror. 

The End of Marriage

Marriage is a duel to the death which no man of honor should decline.

~G.K. Chesterton

The controversy around the HHS Mandate is raging and as one result all the conservative social issues are being discussed about on the talk radio circuit. I was listening to the Dennis Miller show. Mr. Miller and I do not agree on several issues, particularly; abortion, contraception and "gay marriage". On this particular morning he was taking presidential candidate Rick Santorum to task for a comment he made comparing civil unions with bestiality. Then several minutes later a caller posited that presidential candidate Newt Gingrich, with his string of marriages, is the best argument for civil unions. It was these comments and the over all conversation of the show that lead me to a sort of epiphany, as a culture we have already redefined marriage. 

When the Catholic Church speaks of marriage she is speaking of a covenant that is Permanent, Exclusive and Open to Life. These are so essential that if one of the parties entering into the covenant of marriage discloses to the priest that they intend to be married either only temporarily, or with an open sexual life or with no intention of allowing for the possibility that children can be conceived, the priest may withhold the sacrament. 

Our culture has abandoned those three aspects of marriage and has replaced them with the privileges that are commonly associated with marriage; Personal happiness, sexual availability, and tax and legal benefits. This has given rise to many different practices such as prenuptial agreements and open marriages. The problem with this definition is that it has no End (goal). 

Let us consider what the traditional End of marriage in a country has been. It is simply to provide the next generation of healthy stable citizens in the least expensive manner. To aid in the accomplishment of that goal society has given various benefits to married couples to help them reach that goal, specifically tax and legal benefits. 

Our society, using laws and other legislation has undermined that very End of marriage. The permanent aspect of marriage was to protect the woman and children from being abandoned by the husband, but now divorce laws have destroyed any sort of idea of permanency. Indeed there are prenuptial agreements that anticipate that the marriage will not be the slightest bit permanent. 

Contraception undermines both openness to life and exclusivity. It's greatest damage is to exclusivity. It turns the sexual act from being exclusive with the other spouse to simply exclusive with oneself. Once the act is primarily focused on oneself what does it matter if it is with the spouse or with another woman or man. It has already ceased to be a sexual act of mutual life creating love and is relegated to mutual masturbation. 

Abortion is a direct or more complete assault on the Openness to Life. This is not a surprising result of introducing contraception, because if you have already transformed the sexual act into something that is not life creating mutual love, but rather self enjoyment, than those participating in that act are already turned against one another, whither it is the spouse or the child. Thus when the contraceptives fail, as they all will,  there must be  some other mechanism to destroy the result. 

When the three aspects of permanency, exclusivity and openness to life are lived out. The first result is children. The permanency teaches children that to disagree does not have to sever love and relationships, and that to build loving relationships, mutual self-giving is required (this leads to good future relationships). Exclusivity teaches children to live with and learn from life's chooses and to take personal responsibility for each action (this leads to true patriotism).

These are the reasons why marriage must be permanent, exclusive and open to life, and why marriage is the necessary bedrock for society. This is how Rick Santorum ought to have replied to the question about civil unions. This leads to an economic reason for upholding Marriage laws between one man and one woman. That topic specifically I will try to write about soon. 

Pax Tecum.

From the Cave

I just finished creating my first Etsy treasury list, From the Cave. It is a list of primitive or at least primitive looking objects. My favorite author in his book The Everlasting Man speaks of what we actually know about primitive man. We have not found piles of cracked wives skulls, but we have found drawings and sculptures. Right from our earliest origins humanity has had a desire to express itself in non-practical ways. The knife is a practical tool, a shiny stone wove into the pummel leather is not practical. A mug is practical, designs and images on the outside do nothing to increase it's ability to hold beer, but they are desired to be part of it just the same. 

This is one of the greatest things that separates us from animals. A monkey may pick up a stick and use it as a tool to pick bugs out of bark, but when he is full he will never then take that stick, wrap it in copper and set stones in it. 

And so right from our beginnings in the cave we desired to surround ourselves with things of beauty. This became true of every object we used. Fire was put into fireplaces and into pipes, protection and clothing soon had designs in it, food and drink were stored in ornate jars, at least until mass production came along and realized how much cheaper and easier it is to make drab items. 

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.