"The Thursday of Mysteries"

Isn't that a beautiful way to describe today?
I've only just learned it.

I appreciate that word "mysteries" used synonymously with "sacraments," very much.
At Eastern Rite liturgies I've always thrilled a bit at the phrase, "I will not reveal Your Mysteries to your enemies," as if we were suddenly plunged by the universality and sacred timeliness/timelessness of the Sacrifice into penal times, or the first century and were willing to die rather than betray the goings-on in the catacombs to the authorities.
One doesn't see it much in the West, although the sheet music from which I first learned the Bruckner Locus Iste translated sacramentum that way, IIRC.
This is, I promise you, not about aesthetic snobbery, but the music that will happen tonight at any of the Roman Catholic churches within reach will be so jarringly bad or inappropriate that I was casting about for an alternative, and my default Byzantine parish seems not to be having any liturgy tonight, can that be possible?
(Here, I can prove, at least to my own satisfaction that it's not snootiness on my part - if it were not a thousand miles away I would attend an Extraordinary Form Mass I used to hear with some regularity, where the propers that are not sung recto tono or to a psalm tone would be unrecognizable they would be rendered so badly, by a choir that included on singer with a voice like an electric cheese grater. The appropriate done badly by worshipers giving their best is more fitting than the inappropriate done well by worshipers giving their favorites.)
Anyway, I found a church, (of a rite that I don't know well at all,) whose bulletin gives a time for Liturgy of  Thursday of Mysteries.
(And between Holy Orders and Eucharist, and washing of the feet - do Easterners do that? dont know -  our evening will be filled with Mystery.)
Was this Father Hardon?

"A mystery is not a truth about which we can know nothing. It is a truth about which we cannot know everything."

Reblog: "I'm not a Trad, but..."

I am in a very different place, (literally and figuratively,) from when I wrote this, and I'm coming to understand, and sympathize with, people on both extremes of this issue, the True Believers in the Liturgy Wars.
An Extraordinary Form Mass, a regular celebration of the Mass of the Ages has just become available to me, not too far away, and on a weekday so it doesn't usually interfere with either my parish duties, (voluntary) or my familial duties, (voluntary and yet on compulsion.)
But at the same time I am experiencing a reprieve from the sadly perfunctory and weird liturgies that are my usual lot with beautiful and careful Masses said by someone who is at about the furthest one can go in the other direction  from the EF while still being obedient and rubrically correct.
And thrown into the mix, a one-off Are-you-kidding-me Eucharistic celebration complete with off-the-leash pets, and a little labyrinth-induced game of Find the EMHC.
(Someone, PLEASE! what is with modern church architecture that encompasses aisles that dead end????!?@??)
But I think most of this, other than that dealing my employment, still holds true:

If I ...were free to participate where and when and how I would, the Extraordinary Form would not be my first choice.But now, praise Benedict and the motu proprio, I am at least entitled to ask for that, whereas I am not entitled to ask for the Ordinary Form with the Ordinary sung in Latin.Or the Ordinary Form with the priest facing ad orientem. Or the Ordinary Form with no jokes. Or the Ordinary Form without being asked to squawk Lord of the Dance. Or the Ordinary Form without a glad-handing rotary convention inserted where the Pax Christi is offered. Or the Ordinary Form where no adolescent in a football jersey will address me from the sanctuary. Or the Ordinary Form with no mention of Jambalaya or sports enthusiasms.So I am asking for the Extraordinary Form.And my aspirations are rightful.

"I Haz Met the Enemy & He Iz Me"

I thank Thee, Lord, that Thou hast made me JUST as other men are, and even given me the grace to recognize it....
I do know it, really I do. I just have trouble remembering that I know it.
Himself is off to a volunteer activity, one that requires real, make-you-bone-weary labor, and he is heading there early, in order to make it impossible for anyone to guilt him into staying late.
He explained who it was who indulges in the attempted lazy-shaming, and quoted the "tired of being left to finish this up all by myself" emails, and since I know the person, I surmise that being unpleasant pretty much guarantees the same outcome every time.
Himself then drew parallels to a subordinate of his in another charitable work he does - that guy refuses to acknowledge that his area of authority is under the umbrella of a larger program,  (Himself is fine with that, hates being in charge of anyone else in the first place,) except when he needs more help, which he constantly does, and then he expects Himself to scare up some minions.
The guy is always wailing that he is too old to be doing so much on his lonesome, he needs assistance, why is his load so great? more volunteers are found by my husband, the guy talks to them as if they are mentally disabled 5 year olds, bosses them, scolds them, yells at them, insults them in front of others; they quit, and he gets to wail again that he's too old to be doing so much, needs help, behold, and see if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow, which is done unto me!
"Which," says Himself, a light bulb going off over his head, "is what he actually wanted all along."
I think in the movie, "Last Days in the Desert," a very clever thing was done in casting the same actor to play both the human incarnation of the Second Person of the Blessed Trinity and the Evil One.
This is not some heretical dualism, but a visual representation of Christ the "high priest who is [not] unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who has similarly been tested in every way."
Surely in these tests, in these temptations to sin, one is often one's "own worst enemy."
Temptations aren't ugly, obviously evil possibilities that present themselves - they seem good and true and beautiful, THAT'S  WHY  THEY  ARE  TEMPTING.
And our sins are habitual because vices are habits we allow ourselves, even when taking actions putatively intended to produce virtuous, or at least beneficial to us, results.

See? I tried Y [solution] but it ends up that I have to do Z [sin]. It's not my fault, it's X's!!!!!! Why does this always happen to me?

It is amazing how often, and how blatantly we sabotage our own stated goals. And we don't need the Serpent to suggest it - no, the devil can take his ease, we're his Useful Idiots and will do all the work for him.
It's never my fault.
I think of the Islamists who resort to murderous violence because someone insulted them by saying they were prone to murderous violence.
It's the cartoonist's fault!
I think of the self-proclaimed "nice guy" who goes on a vicious rampage because women don't recognize his niceness, and so believes they "deserved to be dumped in boiling water for the crime of not giving me the attention and adoration I so rightfully deserve."
They didn't think he was nice, go figure...
So it's women's fault!

And yes, it's my fault. And Lent is about trying to remember that, and repent of that, and remedy that.

I think of that axiom about the government we have, and think perhaps, yeah, we all commit the sins we deserve.
It is God, against Whom we sin Who doesn't deserve them.

Your Cooking Tip For the Day

If you are not much of a cook and would like to oonch it up a notch, (not take a course/score exotic ingredients/master new techniques, in other words you'd like to be better without too much effort,) and if you're a fan of saving money, I'm going to do you a solid.
Buy a can of tomato paste. If you're in the US this should set you back less than a half buck.

The problem with tomato past is that while very useful, and is expressly called for in many recipes, it's mostly called for in small amounts, and then the rest of the can, even if you transfer it to another container, sits in the refrigerator until it turns brown and you throw it away.

Open the can now, while you're not making anything, and put the contents, (use a scraper to get into the corners,) into a freezer bag, (a quart zip lock should do.)
Flatten it, press out as much air as you can and freeze it.
Anytime you're cooking or heating almost any[savory]thing with more than 3 ingredients, break off a teaspoon-sized piece and add it. (Thaw if necessary, say, in hummus.)
It is compatible with a huge range of spice and flavoring palates, (is that the right "palate"?) and adds an often undefinable richness and depth to many foods.

If you don't believe me, add some to a chocolate cake batter some time.

You're welcome.

Lent Is Upon Us.... or Almost Upon Us... Which 40 Days Are We Talking about, Exactly?

I haven't decided yet if I will give myself Sundays off - I don't usually, but I am more than usually annoyed with the Holy Types who sneer at those who do allow themselves a respite from what is VOLUNTARY PENANCE - you know, if someone is fulfilling his Sunday obligation, the daily communicant should not hold him in contempt?
When it was explained to a woman I know once that the rubrics no longer called for a double genuflection during Exposition she shot back to the person who had so informed her, "FINE.... SPARE your precious knees!"
(Of course, she also thought Heaven was going to be like my high school, with some tables in the cafeteria the property of the Kewl Kids, among which she hoped, by dint of her holierness, to be numbered. As if there were a perfecter version of perfect joy, and beatificer Beatific Vision.)
Anyway, I have a plan.
But alas, the "Three Pillars" are tilting... what do pillars hold up, a roof?... the "roof" of my Lenten practice.
Fasting? subjecting my privileged self to some sort of deprivation? check.
Prayer? something more than usual, something extra? check.
Well, planned at least.
Almsgiving?
Aye, there's the rub.
I'll figure it out.
I actually kind of love Lent. It gave me a little thrill to walk into church this morning and see the violet Tabernacle veil, and Father chanted the entire psalm. And after four years, (and with Himself in the congregation, a "ringer," with a VOICE,) the  early morning crowd finally sang the Gospel acclamation, et to attende domine, with gusto.
Grant, O Lord, that we may begin with holy fasting
this campaign of Christian service,
so that, as we take up battle against spiritual evils,
we may be armed with weapons of self-restraint.
Isn't that a call to arms?

True Christians have cheerful faces and joy in their eyes…

"To Drive the Cold Winter Away....."

By which I mean, to feel cozy at the prospect of the mercury dipping below 70°.

But even so, sipping mulled wine and gazing happily at our Don't-You-Dare-Take-It-Down-Before-February-2 Tree feels like Yules of Yore, (meaning, not of my Youth, but of Years Yet... oh, shut up.)

But I do like spiced wine and I do like the glittering bead garlands of the tree and I do like the over-populated creche scene, (a heathen in-law looked at it and said, wow, that supposed to be Jerusalem or the east Village, or what...? Magnanimous at this festive time, I forgive him and pity him his ignorance.)

Not much time left to savor the victual delights of the season.
One last bit of "fancy" cheese - is there much tastier than Sartori's Bellavitano? I should like to know about it if there is!
Thank God for Aldi, it's the only way I'd ever have such a treat in my house, (we were almost banned from Whole Foods after Himself consumed pretty much the entire contents of a "dome" of samples once. I was made very aware of the... frugality? of my holiday larder by the aforementioned in-law. The prospect of Himself losing insurance coverage will no doubt preclude us ever again entertaining the guy in a manner he finds acceptable - if that isn't the very definition of Silver Linings I don't know what is!)

My Mother... she may have been the only person I know who also enjoyed mulled wine. And she liked cheeses as much as I. Her last Christmas is a memory that will continue to haunt and delight me.
"Lo, how a..."

Notes From a Dying Tablet

It's old, it was dirt cheap, and it's starting to malfunction so frequently, and freeze requiring restarts thats it is almost useless.
So, I'm going through everything actually on it, rather than preserved for posterity somewhere in the ether, and I am at a loss - why did I once think it necessary to remember that Sheldon Cooper's proposed nicknames for Amy Farrah Fowler included Princess Corncob, Gollum, and Fester?

"The Halls Are Alive With the Sound of..."

I grew up in old houses.
Most of my relatives had old houses
I spent the largest part of my adult life in what was, for all intents and purposes,an historic mansion.
The first house we owned was in sight of its centennial.
The house I live in now is far from new.
I kind of like creaking floor boards and old hardware.
I have said, many times, "Ah, it's just the house settling...." and it made me happier to be settling in to a sofa, my bed, whatever.

But I fear that everything has changed, once you've had a rat...

Receiving Communion, and Personal Preference

Our priest obviously does not care to distribute the Body of Christ by placing It on the tongue of the communicant.
I've noticed it especially lately as he will, when I reach the head of the line, (I'm sorry, it's not a procession, it's just a line,) quite deliberately return a Host to the ciborium, and instead take up the more sizable portion created when the large Host was broken at the fraction rite, the wedge shape giving him, as it were, a handle.
When I realized his discomfort, I thought for a moment about receiving in the hand whenever he has Mass, and I am seated in the section where I will most probably be in "his" lane. Perhaps he had a legitimate reason for his eccentric ways.
I've known priests, and EMHCs, too, who were shaky, or had bad eyesight, or were extremely short, and the palm of my hand is a bigger "target," and I have more leeway on where I put it.

But then I recalled overhearing someone, several years ago, speaking of how discomfited she was by "Father". This is someone I knew always did receive in the hand, and she thought he recoiled a bit as he proffered the Body of Christ, lest he touch the communicant.
"He DROPS the host in my hand, like he thinks he's going to catch something!" (And this is a woman with the state of whose hands a surgical nurse would find no fault.)
The other women in the convo affirmed that, yes, that was how he did it.

So I decided there was no reason I should worry about his preference.

But more recently there was a youngish woman ministering, a bit of a high maintenance type, and I was, frankly, disgusted by her long nails as I received, (not a good distraction,) and I decided if I were to find myself in "her" line I would receive in the hand.
Well, she approached the altar during the agnus dei this morning and stood on the side of the church on which I was kneeling, so I whipped out the purell for my hands - you see, I don't much care to consume food I have touched (I have a skin disease, there's almost always some foul-tasting medicine on my hands, and between the time I leave home and communion there's been a zillion door knobs, grungy hymnals and unavoidable contacts of various sorts.)

So "disinfected" hands at the ready, I made my way up toward the sanctuary and then found that they'd changed the formation, and I would be receiving from the priest.

And so I received on the tongue.

And now I'm feeling a little sheepish, since I was willing, for my own comfort, to forgo the manner which I find is more powerfully ritualistic, and yes, reverent BECAUSE  IT  TAKES  A  TINY  BIT  MORE  EFFORT  AND  ATTENTION -- but not for his comfort.

And I admit, I don't know why her grungy nails were such a big deal to me, I'm not bat-guano squeamish, I've come to terms with the Host tasting of Acqua di Gio, and I have eaten the Body of Christ off the floor more than once...

I don't know.

St Kateri

First time out my door since Sunday, fitting that it was for the feast day of the "Lily of the Mohawks."

Here's the thing - I thought it wryly funny, and appropriate, the day in honor of a saint with scarred, and probably, let's be honest, ugly skin.
I happily implore her intercession and accept her patronage. My skin is ugly, and so the face under it is often as well, and I accept that. It's also painful, I'm not as accepting of that.

But what had somehow escaped me was that it was not just her appearance damaged by the smallpox, but her eyesight.

All my worst flare-ups until now had hurt, yeah, and had looked appalling, but this last episode had left my vision, albeit only temporarily, affected.
I didn't, couldn't help at all with the driving, (on the way south after the glorious, glorious CMAA Colloquium.)
I wore my sunglasses all through Mass on Sunday, and have pretty much stayed in dim rooms since.

I've always been very grateful for my eyesight, which was not just good but, once upon a time, exceptional.
I have noticed I don't have as much leeway with distance vis a vis music rack,as opposed to hand-held, as opposed to hand-held in a dense choral crowd, (Brower's choir at the Cathedral, f'rinstance.)
But that's a normal part of aging.
Presbyopia, no?
But now I wondering if something more specific and serious is in play.
S. Kateri, ora pro me

A Hymn and My Happy Place

I think of myself as a fussy, quick-to-compare-and-criticize person, as do most who know me, and I truly am.

That is why it is such a marvelous state of affairs that a tiny and welcome surprise can make me happy all day - please join in a hymn of thanksgiving, number 34 in the missallette.

I think I would willingly and joyfully sing the words of a washing machine owner's manual to PICARDY.
Add to that tune the glorious translation of Gerard Moultrie of the ancient words from the Liturgy of St. James, and I am transported.

Let all mortal flesh keep silence, And with fear and trembling stand; Ponder nothing earthly minded, For with blessing in His hand ,Christ our God to earth descendeth Comes our homage to demand. 

King of kings, yet born of Mary, As of old on earth He stood, Lord of lords, in human vesture, In the body and the blood; He will give to all the faithful His own self for heavenly food. 

Rank on rank the host of heaven Spreads its vanguard on the way, As the Light of light descendeth From the realms of endless day, Comes the powers of hell to vanquishAs the darkness clears away. 

At His feet the six winged seraph, Cherubim with sleepless eye, Veil their faces to the presence, As with ceaseless voice they cry: Alleluia, Alleluia Alleluia, Lord Most High!

It is a shame that those who pursue, perhaps favor, a liturgical minimalism are unaware that the most minimal of embellishment, the tiniest extra effort, lengthening the Mass by mere seconds, is often enough to lift it, and the spirits of the congregants into an entirely new realm.

"Liturgical Material Assuring Us the Man With the Scythe Won't Have the Last Word"

A perfectly wonderful piece, from an Anglican perspective, on the immense value of the Christian funeral.
I don't know Stewart Dakers, but he is, as he so felicitously describes his state in life, "in the queue" when it comes to being the secondary locus of attention at a funeral, i.e. getting up there.
By virtue of my Church work, and even more so, of my enormous family, I have been to many more funerals than most people, it seems, going back to childhood. I am often shocked to know people quite middle-aged who tell me they have never been to one.
(My very earliest memory is of a dead man in a large, pretty box, in a tidy, sweet, if somewhat dark, stone house - the wake of our parish's pastor in his own rectory. It wasn't in any way, shape or form, scary, and I have sympathy for those whose experience, or lack thereof, leads to the dread I find many adults have of the dead and of funerals.)
Mr Dakers paints himself as a bingo-playing senior citizen, but he writes with an edge and wit many an urban hipster would envy.

And then, on top of that, he's simply right in his thought and opinion.

I attended a better funeral a couple of weeks earlier. It took place in a crematorium, whereas Enid’s affair had been in a real church. So in a sense the contrast was the greater. We sat in silence until the coffin was brought in with those wondrous ominous words
I am the Resurrection and the Life…
which set the tone for a sustained focus on the divinity of love and the hope of eternal life. Even without the accoutrements of a holy building, there was a feeling of belonging to a larger universe, a sense of the transformational.
In this secular age, sceptical of the numinous, the religious funeral demands from us the spiritual literacy which can surrender its cerebral convictions to an incredible hope. If that ingredient is removed, if every departure is presented as an event from which we are urged to move on, to draw a line under, then it does not take a psychiatrist or a theologian to identify a major source of contemporary angst.

I Am Not a Squeam, But I Am Squeamish

I have never, even when I was a child or a romantic adolescent, longed for the days of yesteryear.
I am simply incapable of yearning for a period in history when I would be deprived of  any of the comforts with which I grew up.

Forget the big thing, antibiotics, long distance communication in real time, suffrage.

I would be miserable deprived of hair conditioner or fitted sheets or individually wrapped American cheese singles or bug spray or ice cubes.
(We live in a golden age, no?)
Anyway, I am in awe of the easy familiarity with which our ancestors dealt with other species and life and death in the Animal Kingdom.

Yes, Blanche, we have rats in the garage.
I shudder doing the wash, I shudder getting canned goods from the pantry, and I shudder at the smell of whatever has died in the wall.
Himself is made of sterner stuff, he is after all a hick.

Me?
The Silent Squeam.

"Holy" Cards

I am next thing to a hoarder, never can bear to give anything away if I think I might want it later, never can bear to throw anything away if I think someone else might have use of it, and if the right person or charity does not occur to me at the moment - well, there that item will sit. And sit. And sit.
That old faux shearling coat, that I hope never again to be cold enough to wear? It would make a swell pillow.
I hate vertical blinds, took them down immediately - but don't the long cream colored strips look like candles? Add yellow construction paper flames and let each child in Sunday school write the names of people they would like to remember in prayer during the month of All Souls,
I can't throw out scrap metal, I know there are people around who will take it,

I understand there are people who buy expensive garments they've never worn, or replace electronics with newer, faster devices - but then find that they can't bear to pitch that for which they spent so much money. But that's never been my problem - I spend very little on clothes, (I won't even go to the thrift store usually except on sale days,) and technology keeps its place in our household until it completely gives up the ghost, (sometimes after spending a long time on life-support.)

But I do find it difficult to divest myself of books and scores and scripts -- and all those photocopies.
Not so much for what they cost in monetary terms, but in effort. Out of print chant books, and reference works that were the result of hours combing, first, of used book stores, and old libraries, and later the internet - so many hard won volumes or articles or scores are freely available online now.
But I'm getting a bit better at that.

Which leaves us with the matter of holy objects.
I have disintegrating and dilapidated Latin prayerbooks, French antiphonals, a Polish Missal, broken Rosaries, crucifixes rescued from bins at Goodwill, a stack of "pew cards" for the new Holy Week changes, (when did that happen? that's right, before any of us were born.)

I will have a bonfire at some point, soon, I will.

But there are other things that whoever is stuck with clearing out my house will have to find and sort and dispose of, (don't worry, I'll do my best to make certain it won't be the hired henchman of some atheist nephew.)

I am fascinated by the Holy Cards.
They are such a a part of my family and religious history.
I see cards reminding me to offer prayers for the soul of someone I never knew, never met, dead before I was born, who lived half a world away in some cases - I think that's beautiful.
The changing styles fascinate me as well - the mawkish Edwardian lithos of the Virgin Mary no worse nor better than the saccharine pastel-colored saints and angels from between "the" wars.
And both are a damned blessed sight better than the garish '70s asymmetry of graphic artists in thrall to the concept of negative space, or the Kincaidesque landscapes with carefully worded "spiritual" messages, guaranteed not to offend adherents of any religion, or even of none at all.

I had brought some in to the last Sunday school class, curious if these children had encountered such things - I loved them when I was little, to be given something so grown-up, so jewel like, (the print shop at the Rosary Shrine was special,) that so connected me to history, (which, as far as I could imagine, stretched back months and months!)
One of them was an emblem of my very first memory - the dead body of an elderly man lying peacefully in a big box, in a charming little stone house attached to our church. Ah, that must have been the wake of this priest.
Another was for an aunt I remember very well, but strangely couldn't remember dying -I realize now it was because my Mother was in the hospital at the time being delivered of a younger sibling of mine, of course that would have occupied all my attention.

I am well aware that the devotions, the sacramentals, the little, (even from time to time kitschy,) uniquely Catholic practices and items are no all that important in and of themselves - but properly understood, I believe we should think of them as "gateways" to the Sacraments and to an entire right conception of the Faith - to its breadth and its homeyness and corporeality and personalizability, ('zat a word?) to its diversity and mystery and, yes, fun, and perhaps most especially, to our praiseworhty individuality within our praiseworthy interconnectedness.
They are all part of the "Catholic identity" that so many fear our failure to transmit.

Well, some, perhaps most of the 10 year olds knew what they were, one actually owned some, and every single child was fascinated with the very idea. and wanted to have them.
Some had a vague idea of to whom the face on my most recent acquisition belonged.
So we made our own Holy Cards. I gave them a number of psalm verse and prayers as suggestions, and they chose one, unanimously.

O Lord God of hosts! let Your face shine on us, that we may be saved!

(Oh, and this really threw me for a loop - if we had time and supplies for a second card, (after they each made one from themselves and we made 2 dozen for "the kids in juvie," as they like to say,)?

I love that "glory" prayer at the beginning of Mass, can we do that?.... and they all agreed.

Ohm and I believe I may have discovered the secret to engaging them - lamination.
(Dollar Tree, a true dollar store? five sets of the sheets, enough for ten or even 15 cards depending on size and shape. Bookmarks, maybe.)

Yes, laminating is an adventure.
I'm going to use that knowledge next year for enchanting the learning of a chant, and perhaps for memorizing the Works of Mercy, or an Act of Contrition, or the Latin and Greek names of the parts of the Ordinary.

One last thing, I loved this from the memorial card from an uncle who died when I was a young, from St Ephrem (a patron saint of mine.)

I call for the prayers of all those who have known me, of all those who have loved me.

(Isn't that better than, "do not weep for me, I'm in a better place and I'll see you at the other end of the rainbow? I know which one I would rather people read as they cart me off to the boneyard.)

"And then Oedipus and Jocasta, assured by their supporters on social media that '#LoveWins', decided...."

In the great time suck that is Those Interwebs, ostensibly searching for some information about children and catechetics on the super highway, I found myself on a bypass about the irrationality and inconsistency of the current tv and movie rating system, and then went up a dead-end about the size of Cinderella's, (AKA Lilly James',) waist, pulled in to a private driveway and noticed something tantalizing about how to nip in the waist of an oversized button up shirt, had to back up to the intersection where I saw a criticism of children's literature that was not protective of the environment/blended families/the Other among us, and decided to go brew a cup, no, a mug, stadium cup of almond tea.

But while sipping, the thought came that there is a great misapprehension of the purpose of the fairy tale.

We get modern takes, and reboots and re-writes, and outright bannings of fables that fail to impart information in the manner of a user's manual.
We want Common Core nuts and bolts to help make us better worker bees instead of the grandeur and deeper truths of myth, shrunk to childsize for little hands, and pureed for mouths not yet containging any permanent teeth.
Cinderella isn't about women needing men to take care of them but about spousal and familial love being a greater goal and a rarer prize than almost any other in this life, finer than extravagant clothes and grand houses, (and certainly than inherited wealth, or servants to boss about.)

Have we done this with, (more than the occasional movie, such as the nit-wit Troy, and all stories from the Bible, on which there is open season) do we do this to creation tales, and to myth, as well?

Is there a volume of Greek and Roman Myths that functions as an apologia for Jocasta's incest and assures us that no, Time doesn't devour his children? where Narcissus has a learning experience, falls in and, rescued by followers who learn of his plight via Instagram, resolves to limit himself to only a few selfies a day? Does Atalanta not just scoop up the golden fruit but speed past Melanion just the same, magnanimously allow him to live and go off with her best gal pal to a life of lesbian bliss?

Epic Prayer FAIL

A few weeks ago, when there was Exposition at the parish, after maybe three or four minutes of their extremely loud chatting I walked over to a group of about 6 older adults, and carefully smiling, I tapped the one nearest me on the shoulder, and mouthed the words "benediction... adoration," and gestured silently toward the Blessed Sacrament in the monstrance.
They moved it outside, but they were not amused.
It came to me that my smile may have been too practiced and seemed insincere.

Perhaps I even scared them.

I resolved to make an effort to be less quick to be annoyed at the lack of decorum sometimes shown by others in Church.
Henceforth, instead of seeking to change someone else's behavior, I would try to pray for them.

Yes, that was it, I would pray for them!

Today, after Mass, while I sat and read, (not for the first time, THANK  YOU,  MAGNIFICAT!!!!!!) really, a perfect reflection, considering, Dorothy Day considering the Little Flower's Little Way of Love, the opportunity arose.

Three women stood not a yard from where I knelt, not particularly old, the eldest couldn't have been 45, nattering full voice about tennis, restaurants, clothes, someone they hadn't seen lately....

I put my fingers in my ears and continued reading, the booklet balanced on the back of the pew in front of me.
I suddenly thought how ostentatious that must have seemed, but i needn't have worried, they had not noticed, or if they had, it didn't phaze them, for their conversation continued. It was loud enough to hear despite my fingers. Someone turned off the lights in the nave, leaving only the sanctuary illuminated, that served as an indication to them to speak more loudly.
Since I could no longer read, it seemed like the perfect time to stop feeling mean feels and just pray for them, try simply to love them, instead.

Complete failure.
I found I only eschewed peevishness by substituting condescension [poor dears! they don't know any better...]. I settled into a state of exasperation, and left.

Falls again for the umpteenth time...

Making Plans to Amuse God

Well, I did advise everyone, myself most of all, to at least occasionally worship in a Mass that is prepared and celebrated by those less... punctilious, skilled, fastidious, cultivated, and knowledgeable.
Because will we nil we, come hell[acious music] or high jinx, the Holy Spirit will come down upon our offerings like the dewfall, and they will become for us the Body and Blood of our Lord, Jesus Christ.
(Valid, if not always licit, at least in the situations where I find myself.)

Can't be helped, my Triduum will begin listening to some inappropriate instrumental music, and end  surrounded by damp-footed teen-agers and middle-aged women, raising their voices to be heard over the Pange Lingua, as they call their freinds, make dinner plans and swap golf stories.

On the other hand, the event will be even more penitential for the celebrant who is making tiny, incremental differences - a lovely man who will too soon be gone.

God bless him.

O Lord, our God send us many holy priests, and may our prayers strengthen them to do God's will.

Contemplating and Confronting Contradiction, the Triduum, and My Own Unrighteousness

It sometimes seems to Himself that every conversation I have with him contains some form of correction or contradiction.
I know this, because he has said so. (I could counter that I'm not getting credit for all the times he says something patently absurd  or factually wrong, but um... fuel on the fire.)

But it is true that I am a contrarian.

A shameful proportion of all of my impulses to write here, or to tweet, or to retweet, or to post in comboxes are in an effort to "fix" some error, or fantasy, or misapprehension.
(Seriously, what's all the fuss about the Oxford comma, what purpose did it serve there? Use it when it's needed, says I. I digress.)
Showing contempt, carping, complaining, critiquing - this is what I do.

I literally only opened this window because I have some culinary obligation for the coming feast, was about to look for a recipe and was confronted with some absurd assertions regarding substitution of ingredients.

In what universe is cinnamon a suitable replacement for cardamom?????

I see myself, (and it is a fearful prospect,)  turning into my great aunt, who could launch a twenty minute rant on virtually anything.
Really.
I was once trapped in a car with her for a half hour ride home while she riffed on the temerity of whoever ran the concessions at the airport at which she had just been met, to stock his chewing gum rack with the variety of wares with which he had chosen to do so,
Another digression.

I have decided to fast from contradiction, in print, pixel or parley from sundown today, until dawn Sunday.
Please pray for me.
(But until then, Katie bar the door.)

"Great St. Joseph, Son of David, Spouse of Mary Undefiled"

I had a day yesterday that promised to be very long, and very tiring, (or perhaps, its prospect only seemed frightening to my Indolence, which is like an actual companion creature to me.)

St Joseph's day, a great solemnity, (yes, gloria AND credo, Father) and a special feastday for me, but my parish has no Saturday morning Mass, and others in town had them at the same hour that I was required at an activity, would be engaged in an obligatory service.
There's a church in a town a county over that actually has TWO Masses on Saturday mornings, (perhaps only for Lent?), but only the earliest would get me back in time to fulfil my commitment, but I didn't see how I could get up two hours early and still have the energy and clear head I really needed for whatever.
I decided in fairness to the people depending on me later in the day I would set my alarm for the usual time, but if I awoke earlier I would get my sorry carcass to the liturgy.

As I prepared for bed, I remembered that when I was a child, my Mother, (about whom I can finally think and speak with some degree of serenity and composure,) told me when she was little her very good Aunt had taught he that if there was something you really needed to get up for and were afraid you would oversleep, you should say a few Hail, Marys and ask the Blessed Virgin to wake you.

So quaint, right?

I added 3 Aves to my night prayers, asked the Blessed Mother's intercession, and naturally to St Joseph. And then, for good measure I appealed to my parents, as well.
Now, I should caution, I am not of the mind that all those we love are thereby canonized at death, but I am as sure that both my Mother and Father enjoy the beatific vision as I am of anything, for certain and very specific reasons.

Oh, and my Father was Joseph.

And so, to bad.
Then, I couldn't sleep. My mind was full of... well, just so many things, none of them disturbing, wonderful, and interesting and encouraging, in fact, but I needed sleep and it took hours for it to come, and I resigned myself to saying a few prayers on my own for Good and Just Saint Joseph sometime during the day.

I don't suppose I need to tell you after going on so long about it, I awoke not just in time, but refreshed and happy to arise as I seldom never am, (not a lark, I'm afraid....more of a bat.)
Terror of demons, indeed...

Saint Joseph, you whom the Father knew to be the Essential Man, pray for us.

Distractions At Mass, and When Before the Blessed Sacrament

I have set myself a little Lenten practice, and "in the final week of the regular season" I can now state categorically, IT HAS BEEN A DISMAL FAILURE.

 I had decided that instead of being annoyed, and instead of "praying for them", (which can be an exercise in smug superiority, at least for me,) I would simply try to love people who conduct kaffee klatsches, and in the process, annoy me at Church.
After all, I thought initially, this should be easy, I should be able to recognize kindred spirits, I am easily distracted, and the topic of my thoughts tends to the profane, too.

"....For through your goodness we have received the bread we offer --"
Bread. I wonder, is the gluten-free bandwagon ever some kind of sub-conscious dig at the Eucharist?  I like bread. I like carbs. Oh, heck, I like FOOD. There was some recipe I was looking for.... Do I need to shop? Trying not to spend anything until I get my insurance tangle unknotted. But I'll need another ingredient. Better head to the Sav-a-Lot. Oh, on the way I'll check for the shirt Himself needs at... Ya know, this top really looks pretty good with this outfit, I should check through any shirts he's getting rid of -- well, wait, did he already get one? I know on his way to golf he could have -- shoot. What did the priest just say? Where are we? Oh, I seem to be standing up, ah, preface dialogue?

Because to be honest, those aren't that different from the topics of the very loud convos that begin before the celebrant has even hits the sacristy.
But doctors appointments, prescription drugs and jokes are a bit part of the post-liturgical gabfest, too.
Lots of laughing.
Lots of greetings yelled halfway across the nave.
Lots of social engagements... engaged.

But the incredible volume, the din, is just a function of the age of your average weekday communicant.
So, yeah, the chats are loud, but I know, they are, in their way, mostly signs of love.
Are they appropriate in the presence Sanctissimi?
Probably not.
But are they irreverent?
Who am I to judge....

So, sometimes with my fingers in my ears, I just try to love Him and them--

Hey, there's that guy who always says "...Full of grace, the Lord is with YOU..." in his decades, I hate that--

And so it continues.