The Catholic Comedy

An A-PAUL-ing Idea … How the Catholic Vote Will Transform America

2011-11-27T11:20:00.000-06:00

For so many election cycles, the most liberty-minded voting bloc in America--Catholics, 30% of the electorate--has yet to make its voice heard.

Instead of wooing this massive bloc, Democrats and Republicans alike have driven a wedge into the two-chambered heart of American Catholic political philosophy, the key tenets of which are:

Subsidiarity--that is, the smallest unit of society administers all the responsibilities it can without the intervention of a larger entity. Thus, families--and not villages--are uniquely suited to birth and rear children. A village is uniquely equipped to deliver clean drinking water and to delineate property lines. A state is fashioned to govern the trade of a large geographic region, providing highways, airports, and boundary rights that connect municipalities. And so on. The Church's 2,000-year-old family/parish/diocese polity has weathered the decentralization of the Roman Empire through the depravities of the French Revolution, Naziism, and Communism.
The Dignity of the Human Person--namely, that we are endowed with liberty to freely embrace the good and freely resist evil. Catholic Saints like Francis (who gave himself for the good of the poor) and Martyrs like Maximilian Kolbe (who gave his very life to resist evil) witness the core Catholic teaching: love thy neighbor as thyself.

Price Tag

Since the time of Teddy Roosevelt and Woodrow Wilson, both major American political parties' policies have eroded subsidiarity and the liberty of the individual, creating, domestically, a bloated nanny state interested only in its own expansion, and, internationally, an empire that stations our brave and self-sacrificing fighting men and women in 143 nations, far from safety, home, and family.

The price tag:

an unsustainable economic system that rolls up debts for a middle class whose each succeeding generation is more enslaved to, and impoverished by, big government; and
a military presence on other peoples' soils that directly contradicts our own cherished notions of sovereignty and liberty and rolls up trillions in debt.

Conversation Shift

When did the conversation change from whether taxes are constitutional to which party is going to "grant" the biggest tax "break"?

When did we the people cede to presidents (of both parties) the power to wage "police actions" and ram rod a "patriot acts"?

Curiously, this tyrannical nanny-state/war-empire arose even as a once solidified Catholic voting bloc was effectively splintered. Remember the fear-mongering that Al Smith would obey the Pope in place the Constitution? Remember the questions about JFK's Catholicism? How about the 1970s and 80s fragmenting the Catholic consensus on the dignity of the human person into "social conservatives" (pro-life, pro-family) versus "social-justice liberals" (anti-death-penalty, anti-war, civil-rights devotees)?

Catholic DNA

The DNA of the Catholic social philosophy is truly a double-helix. Those who prize the sacredness of life from conception to natural death do so for the same reasons as those who advocate just war and just economies--subsidiarity and the dignity of the human person.

In short, Catholic political philosophy upholds the liberty of each and every individual to will and do the greatest good for all, especially on behalf of the weakest and most vulnerable:

Ron Paul A Sword of Division?

We now see this effort to divide the Catholic vote being spread to the entire American electorate. The status-quo of both parties want to fragment America's perception of Ron Paul, the first statesman since Ronald Reagan made his 1964 "Time for Choosing" speech to forthrightly proclaim an undivided Catholic sense of liberty.

The difference between Ron Paul and 1964's Ronald Reagan?

Ron Paul has been proclaiming these ideals for 35 years.

Only now, as the American people are embracing these ideals for the first time since the founding of our nation, have Congressman Paul's ideas gained enough of an audience to threaten the Demo-Publican hegemony.

Thus, Ron Paul is misleadingly portrayed by his opponents as

both a pro-life activist who threatens Roe v. Wade and as a failed social conservative because he does not support a life-at-conception amendment to the Constitution;
a radical anti-war protestor, even though he receives more contributions from military personnel than does any other candidate; and
a libertine who wants to legalize drugs and prostitution despite the fact that he has been repeatedly re-elected by one of the most socially conservative Congressional districts in the nation.

Who was it who said that when you earn the enmity of opposing parties, you know you've hit a nerve?

An A-PAUL-ing Idea!

Finally, Catholics have a political leader who takes seriously Catholic political philosophy and whose ascendence will topple the nanny-state empire that the haters of Catholic polity have built.

Let's strike a blow for liberty, the human person, the family, and a government that will again seek to maximize rather than curtail the freedom to do good. Hear out Ron Paul, Catholics. Elect him to the Presidency.

Think of it as an a PAUL-ing idea … at least for the status quo who have so long lulled the Catholic giant asleep.

10 Reasons Catholics Should Elect Ron Paul

2011-10-02T10:30:00.001-05:00

10. Ron Paul is a Constitutionalist. For the last 33 years, Ron Paul has demonstrated that America's problems proceed from a bloated and tyrannical federal government that needs to follow a Constitution it has abandoned.

9. Ron Paul is NOT a Libertarian, nor does he want to "legalize drugs." Ron Paul correctly notes that the so-called "war on drugs" is a costly and un-Constitutional over-reach of the Federal bureaucracy--a matter that states and local communities are better equipped to legislate and enforce.

8. Ron Paul is emphatically pro-life. As a practicing obstetrician/gynecologist, a father of 5 children (five others died before birth), and grandfather of 17, Ron Paul has delivered 4,000 babies. Ron Paul correctly sees that the Constitution as it stands already promotes life, for the infamous Roe v. Wade decision is yet another way the federal government has assumed powers that belong to the states.

7. Ron Paul is a Just-War Theorist. As he has stated for the past 30+ years, Ron Paul sees our forces in more than 140 nations as the bankruptcy-inducing empire-building of a federal government that itself creates more enemies of America. We ought to be a beacon of freedom rather than an image of occupation. Our young men and women ought to be fighting to uphold freedom at home rather than being the targets of extremists abroad.

6. Ron Paul wants to end the Fed because the unlimited creation of counterfeit money crushes the middle class and enriches a federal bureaucracy that uses inflation of the dollar as a means to tighten its grip on individual freedoms.

5. Ron Paul is a subsidiarist in the old Catholic sense of that word. Chesterton, Belloc, and the history of the Catholic Church attest to Dr. Paul's adherence to the principle that our individual freedoms are best administered by the smallest units of government, starting with the family.

4. Ron Paul is the only Congressman to hit a home run in a major-league baseball stadium. I realize that this doesn't thread with the previous six points, but isn't that just cool?

3. Ron Paul is not Catholic. Yep. You heard me right--Catholics should elect Ron Paul especially because he is not Catholic and thereby illustrates the truths inherent to the Catholic worldview since Saints Paul and Augustine: namely, that God is the source of all Truth. God will and can use rejected cornerstones. What matters about Dr. Paul is that he will uphold the Constitution. Just as I want my Bishop to be magisterially faithful, so I want my President to be beholden to the Constitution.

2. Ron Paul asks nothing of We the People but an adherence to Liberty. Unlike virtually every occupant of the Oval Office since Abraham Lincoln, Ron Paul does not ask the American people to choose between immoral choices. Ron Paul will be a President who calls us to fulfill the dignity of the human person and the inherent morality of Liberty: the freedom to embrace the good and resist evil.

1. Ron Paul is electable. The Catholic vote has a fundamental impact on every Congressional and Presidential election. Thus, Democrat and Republican leaders always seek to drive a wedge into the Catholic vote, nullifying its decisive impact. Ron Paul unites Catholics behind individual fidelity to the dignity of the human person, which is the bedrock of all social justice--not the distopic statism of the so-called two "major" parties. If Catholics do not elect the next President, who are we then allowing to hold the reigns of our Liberty?

Review: It Doesn't End Here, by Dawn Marie Roeder

2011-07-24T15:56:00.002-05:00

In the annals of books about grief stand C. S. Lewis' A Grief Observed, Sheldon van Aucken's A Severe Mercy, and John Gunther's Death Be Not Proud. All these titles treat instances of the terminal illness of an adult or near-adult loved one, and it's attendant grieving process.

Buy Here

Dawn Marie Roeder's It Doesn't End Here joins this lofty company especially because it underlines the Catholic theology of dying-to-self in the harrowing aftermath of the sudden death of a tiny only child--and no mere accidental death, but one caused by a drug-induced psychosis.

Dawn Marie Roeder was a single mother of beautiful 2-year-old Nathaniel when, in a good-natured attempt to control her diagnosed ADD/ADHD, she was prescribed a drug, among whose hardly-noted (by the pharmaceutical company and her doctor) potential side-effects was drug-induced psychosis. With no previous history of psychosis, Dawn continued to take the drug under the prescription of two physicians only to wake up in a hospital with no memory of the car crash that stole the life of Nathaniel.

Mrs. Roeder pulls no punches in this memoir, ranging freely over the formative events of her faith development in a jumbled fashion--yet this jumbling is no accident of organization but an intentional means of helping us walk Dawn Marie's road to Calvary with Mary the Mother of Christ. As she reassembles the fragments of her shattered life--the latent guilt, the soul-ripping loss of a child, the suspicion that the universe is cruel at its heart, a prolonged court battle with the pharmaceutical company, and a deepening intimacy with her Beloved, Christ the Savior--we, too, bring into the focus of God's mercy our own experiences of grief, mental disarray, and David-vs.-Goliath fights:

As my faith had taught me about … the Mother of God, her strength came not in arguing with the will of God, but [in] surrendering to it. In this reflection, I realized with all my life that I, too, must embrace the reality that my child was not coming back this side of heaven…

Along the way, Dawn Marie re-introduces us to friends in the Faith whom we may also rely on amidst our trials--Mary, Saint Maria Goretti, and, most formatively for her, Padre Pio.

The blend of her very human reactions to the crests and troughs of her amazing journey, along with the humanity of these Saints, works like Saint Therese's "lift to heaven," helping us to see that, even at our most down-and-out moments, "it truly doesn't end here." One is reminded of C. S. Lewis' admonition to Sheldon van Aucken, "Christians never say 'goodbye' but 'see you soon'!"

I will not spoil the outcome, but I do urge you to read Dawn Marie's faith-emboldening embrace of the grieving process and the liberating power of forgiveness.

I look forward to Mrs. Roeder not ending her writing here but continuing to allow her very human and down-to-earth love of Our Savior empower her to pen more inspiring works.

The Harry Potter Blotter--What's A Catholic To Do?

2011-07-23T22:04:00.001-05:00

Will the real Christ stand up? Whom do you pick from this line-up?

Since L'Osservatore Romano published kudos for the last Harry Potter film, the response has read like a police blotter, with criminal accusations a-fly. Decriers of Rowling's wizardry series have quoted Michael D. O'Brien, Pope Benedict (who commented on the Potter series when he was Cardinal Ratzinger), and the Vatican's Chief Exorcist, Father Gabrielle Amorth to demonstrate that the Harry Potter series represents an inroad for witchcraft and demonic influence, or at least the paganization of Western Civilization.

However, many faithful Catholics have read the series and wonder why the to-do? Some even go so far as to posit the Harry Potter of the Seventh Book (The Deathly Hallows) as a Christ figure, which scandalizes others who are trying to publish the implicit dangers of the Potter series.

What to do? If you're like me, you probably wondered what all the hoopla was about when the series caught fire more than ten years ago and actually picked up the books to see what it was about. I read them and, as a then-evangelical-United-Methodist pastor, I at first proclaimed the many problems with the book, most notably what Michael D. O'Brien points out:

All too often, when cultural material arrives in intense pleasure-inducing forms, and contains some positive ‘values’ mixed with highly toxic messages in its role modeling and its anti-values, we are easily seduced. To believe that the Potter message is about fighting evil is superficial. On practically every page of the series, and in its spin-off films, evil is presented as ‘bad’, and yet the evil means by which the evil is resisted are presented as good.

But, as I read all the books in the series--even as I converted to Catholicism in 2005--I allowed my children to read the series and to share with me about it. Nonetheless, I always qualified any enthusiasm for the books with what seem to me to be two major difficulties with Rowling's works:

What O'Brien notes in the quotation above--namely, that the fight against evil in the series seems hopelessly riddled (yes, the play-on-words is intended) with the evil power Voldemort himself wields; and
The writing itself, which, although employing all the techniques of the fantasy genré invented by MacDonald, Tolkien, and Lewis, falls far, far short in literary merit of the great works of these authors.

Both these problems still gnaw at me, making me sympathize with then Cardinal Ratzinger's and Michael D. O'Brien's well-seated criticisms of the series.

And yet … and yet …

… that seventh book, The Deathly Hallows, is by far, the most admirable of the series, and, although it never rises to the level of great literature, it does make me understand why some, like L'Osservatore Romano gush over it and why others, even Catholics, see Harry as a Christ figure …

… and yet … Harry is not the Christ of this story. No one is. For Rowling's tale springs from an implicitly pagan worldview.

Before anyone out there writes off this blog as merely a summation of Harry Potter as neo-pagan, new-age Hogwarts hogwash, you ought first read what I mean by pagan.

Paganism persists because it is remains the only historical alternative to faith in Christ--that Faith which proclaims reliance on God's grace and mercy, dependent on no gesture, action, effort, or offering we can render.

Underneath the Zeuses, Zoroasters, Odin's, and Baal's is a mercantile relationship--namely, that we can appease the uncontrollable powers of the cosmos by rendering a fitting offering from our own wherewithal. In it's worst form, this tit-for-tat, I-can-buy-my-own-security-with-right-sacrifice mindset devolves into demonism, wherein our power-rendering sacrifice entails making ourselves fit to be fodder for demonic powers. Witness the Azteca and Maya of Central America, or the Carthaginians and Phoenicians of the Mediterranean who made human sacrifice, especially of children, the coinage of power.

In it's least malignant form--the paganism of Greco-Roman culture--represents an almost playful, imaginative encounter with the magic springs of the universe. Indeed, that is why the ancient world admitted no reconciliation between its great mythologies and its great philosophies. Even when a virtuous pagan would put some stock in Aristotle's "First Cause/Prime Mover" or Plato's realm of ideals, he couldn't speak to those abstractions. Simply put, there could be no imaginative encounter with the conclusion of a philosophic argument. How then to explain the magic of the universe? The fact that, despite its setting, the sun does come back again? The joyous realization that, though Autumn wends its way to Winter's ever-longer, colder nights, the light waxes with a finality revelled in during the Summer Solstice?

What do men do, in lieu of the revealed final truth, but personify such things in the form of mythic encounters with the gods? Though much mischief and demonic trickery comes of such mythos, the demons themselves are not capable of myths--only of gross parodies of the True Good that only God creates. Thus, even in the most lie-riddled myth of, say, Zeus forcing himself upon Leta lies a tiny truth that springs out of man's own goodness: his encounter with the supernatural--a goodness and an encounter authored only by the One True God. Demons can't do that; they can only lie about and warp our vision of God's authorship of our story.

Truly, in the Christ, we become men who put away the childish things of myths. When the True God arrives in the creche at Bethlehem, the half-gods (and their demonic puppeteers) are put in rout. We now have a personal, societal, civilizational, natural, supernatural encounter with God in the Eucharistic that blows away all myths--not because it is solely true and they wholly false, but because it is the Real Presence that they can only dimly, awkwardly, and mischievously pantomime, like a four-year-old's stick-figure points to the Mona Lisa. If it never occurs to us to immediately conclude to the Mona Lisa after viewing a child's stick figure, it is not because the stick figure is flat-out evil but because DaVinci gives us the real thing.

So even the most benign of the myths seem in comparison to the revelation of Christ. And so vain and fruitless might it seem to us that some Catholics would gush over the Christ-figurine of Harry Potter. Indeed, we might as well praise Orpheus as a figure of the Christ--but only if we strain our eyes and grant a lot of leeway and suspension of disbelief to our hearing of the myth. Harry's world is one in which the coinage of power is the "magical" use of magic--something Voldemort fails at and Harry succeeds in, primarily because Harry is willing to offer himself to death and Voldemort not.

All well and good … sounds Christ-like, doesn't it? … until … until …

… until we look at Harry's mug-shot a little more closely. I admit that the Harry Potter series appeals to me, and I can therefore understand why it appeals to so many others … it fits the characteristically pagan and characteristically human view of the cosmos--one in which we finally, with the right gesture, the right mixture of virtue, effort, luck, and the self-defeating nature of the evil powers of the universe, make everything right and still get to do it our way.

None of this is to belittle Harry, any more than it would be to belittle Odysseus for finally making it back to Ithaca the pagan way. For those old pagan ways were the faint shadows, distant echoes, and hand-shaped-cloud forerunners of the Truth that was to come. When Odysseus does return home, Homer makes sure it is due to the intervention of Athena, the goddess of wisdom. Now that Christ is at home with us in the Eucharist, we can see that even the folly of man's old pagan myths was all along the wisdom of God.

In this way, the Harry Potter series is not evil in itself nor do its characteristics and story necessarily breed demonism or lead children to witchcraft. It does represent a throwback to an outmoded worldview--the idea that we must find the right magic to unlock the trapdoors of the universe. And to that extent, it is deceptive. But what about generations of Christians who have read the classic myths and epics as a way to marvel over the mysterious footprints in the sand and fingerprints of God in history?

Should we be horrified over Catholics who might see in Harry's use of the Resurrection Stone a sketchy footprinted path to the Communion of Saints or in his "first death" at the hands of Voldemort an evaporating fingerprint of the Passion?

Why even note such things when we do have the Communion of Saints with us (without the conjuring of the Resurrection Stone) and when we do have more than a mere fingerprint but all of Christ in the Precious Body and Blood?

The answer has something to do with what Michael D. O'Brien and others have astutely called "the twilight of the west." We are living in a time in which many of us have already slipped back into a pagan worldview without the backdrop of Christendom … for many have already abandoned the Christ.

The only reason we can dimly see, as if in a warped mirror, saintly and Passion-ate glints of truth in a work of juvenile fiction is because we already have received the Truth of the Christ. The Faithful can take comfort in the Truth that, if anyone finds anything good in the Harry Potter series, it comes from the Author of all good--God Himself. For the devil makes no good (and, if history and the Scriptures are any indication, he does a stumblebum job of parodying God's goods--for his parodies always lay the groundwork for grace; indeed, one gets the feeling that, though Satan is horribly earnest in his efforts, he is indeed the only power who does not see that his worst plots are little more than parodies--Milton has caught some wind of this).

That we often fall for such parody says more about original sin than it does about stories, myths, and life itself.

But what of modern pagans? I don't mean that ancient Greeks and Romans are walking among us again today. Oh, would that they were! There were souls, conscious of our fallibility and tragic bent, who flocked to the comic story of the Christ at a time when civilization was crumbling. Only such a myth-glutted and Truth-starved civilization could produce Lawrence, Sebastian, Helen, and hosts of others!

No, in the time of our would-be tragic civilization, we are besieged by a growing population of would-be pagans who might put their ancient counterparts to the blush. For these modern pagans not only reject the Christ but also the old pagan mythologies. To what, then, would they flock but a juvenile literary series that throws off faint, dying embers of the Christ Whom they shun (but still innately need) and the magical cosmos (that they desperately miss), which they have technologized into nothing but dead matter?

I say "they," but I should rightly utter "we." If some Catholics praise Harry Potter as a Christ figure, what are we the Church trading upon that makes a Harry Potter so charismatic in the Real Presence of the Resurrected Christ? L'Osservatore Romano's review seems at best to say that we should embrace Harry because his story is not overly evil. Faint praise? Or a damning admission that we Catholics are very wanting some real good?

And what of fools like me who have read the entire series and allowed his children to do so? Have I been inviting them to sup in a septic tank (as Michael D. O'Brien has coined it) only because I've scented some honey in the cesspool?

Well, I am a fool. I know it. For, in the past, I rebelled against Christ and His Church because I thought I could navigate and negotiate good and evil on my own terms. Now that I am back in the fold, could I not be committing the same error in, well, actually finding the Harry Potter books entertaining even if they are not literary triumphs? Redeeming even if they throw off only faint sparks of the real Christ and the real Passion?

Perhaps. But I take some comfort in this thought: namely, that the ancient mythologies were testimony of God working even in the cesspools of human imagination. We always need to recall that our imaginative capacities are indeed cesspools in comparison to a Beloved who can utter "LIGHT!" and there is light. Nonetheless, our imaginations remain created sparks of that Light which has shone forth in the darkness. Our honey is not transformed into septic water, no matter how choking the filth and fumes of the waste surrounding it.

You and I as Catholics don't need Harry Potter in order to encounter the Light that overcomes the darkness. But is it not magical in the sense of the ancient myths that, even in the midst of what appears a cesspool of culture (and of what appears to be a decaying civilization that can't even parody its pagan forebears) that Harry Potter, amidst the muck, STILL points to, even dimly, the Christ?

God's Truth and Beauty shine forth in all things, no matter how warped they are by evil. Evil is the parody. God is the Truth. And for a parody--unwitting or intended--to be a parody, it has to flash a faint flicker of the thing it parodies.

Harry is no Christ. We--pagans and Catholics--all of us--live and breathe in the same culture, we trod through the same muck. Many, many unChurched souls, yes, are deceived by the Harry-Potter-like parodies that abound in our culture, the false Christs, the anti-Christs that seek to lure our eyes away from our Beloved, the One True Christ. Sadly, many Churched souls willingly trade the Christ in for a Harry Potter or two. I've done it myself.

But just because Harry Potter can be a means of error does not mean that one author's attempt to tell a story and millions of readers adherence to those stories are a damnable thing. Truth be told, I like the Seventh Book of the Harry Potter series. And I have willingly engaged with my now-adult children in their reading of the series. But like the pagan myths of old, this new, diminished pagan myth can't help but point to the Christ, even amidst its confusion. Perhaps its willing use of evil means to triumph over evil is the cause of its less-than-literary-classic quality. Or perhaps the limited imagination of its author's literary ability leads to an ethically, philosophically, and mythologically crippled worldview (namely, that we can fight evil with its own powers).

Despite all that, Harry's triumph over Voldemort is likable and entertaining--somewhat in the same sense that Perseus' triumph over the Medusa and Kraken is likable and entertaining. And in the same way that Gran Torino's Walt Kowalski triumphs over the villainous Hmong gang is entertaining. Despite that, I am not converted to Harryism. Even if some take Perseus, Deepak Chopra, or Clint Eastwood as their saviors, I will have only the Christ.

And I will take Christ as he peeks at me in my muck, even in Harry Potter.

Having read the Harry Potter series, and having allowed my children to do so, I can tell you that I am better equipped to greet Christ--not because Harry is a Christ, but because Christ is Christ:

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him. (Gerard Manley Hopkins)

So, the next time we walk down an Emmaus Road with a modern-pagan or Catholic fan of Harry Potter, let's none of us worry about which one of us is Cleopas or Christ. Though the two of us might be strange to each other, let our hearts be on fire even if the only thing we have in common is that we've read Harry Potter. Christ will reveal Himself to us in the breaking of that bread (which is all the mug-shot sorting we need.)

And, if you've no intention of reading Harry Potter, then trot with Philip down a desert road and help an Ethiopian or two with Isaiah 53:7-8.

The Bishop Tripped, Episode 9

2011-07-17T14:06:00.000-05:00

©Randall A. Beeler, 2011

This installment of theComedy is part of an original novel I am writing, called The Bishop Tripped: the story of a man, who, disillusioned, seeks to escape his life, only to be mistaken for a bishop--all the way to the miter, crozier, and diocesan bureaucracy.

None of this writing is edited. It is written as it happens, with every post I blog. No premeditation, other than a story trajectory in my imagination and the characters who will take it and run with it.

To start at the beginning of the story, either scroll down to, or click on, Episode 1.

So, live and as it happens, here is the next installment of The Bishop Tripped …

Carmelo Cardinal Pastore, the Apostolic Nuncio, ladled out his third bowl of gumbo with relish. The man was gaunt (though not in that Shakespearian-villain-"Yond-Cassius-has-a-lean-and-hungry-look" way). It was all Michael could do not to utter the old witticism, "Where'r you puttin' all that? Ya got a hollow leg?"

But the food did not keep the Cardinal from observing everything he could about the new Archbishop. "Archbishop Christopher, when you were in Santa Fe, you did not host the Nuncial delegation to Diocesan cooking. No, only the finest of Santa Fe's finest restaurants. Yet here we are, just you and I this time, in the humble Archdiocesan kitchen, eating microwaved gumbo--delicious gumbo nonetheless."

Michael swallowed the last of his second bowl. "Your Eminence, Naomi made the gumbo--she is a master chef in her own right. But she also has a husband and grandchildren to cook for. I take the microwave as a trade-off for having the best home-cooked food in the Bayou City. You don't seem to be suffering, eh?"

The Nuncio paused over his spoon. Michael wasn't sure if he'd made the old scarecrow choke. Then a bellowing Pavarotti laugh bubbled up from his frail-looking chest. "Si! I'm not going to say that the Nuncial accommodations are wanting, but I do fast quite a bit--sometimes, however, on my visits, the local cooking makes such fasts obligatory! Ha!"

The old man was cagey, and Michael was not going to take this little joke as a reason to back down one inch from that gaze that took in everything. "Well, you are certainly welcome for a Houston layover any time that such penances strike you unawares."

Again, the good Cardinal bellowed, then grabbed his stemware of wine. "But you do not--how do you say?--skimp on the wine. It is not Italian, but it reminds me of my hometown, Gubbio."

"Actually, your Eminence, it's not that expensive at all. I never was a wine lover until my w--, I mean my--my best friend introduced me to it as something not just for snobs. This is a surprisingly inexpensive Malbec Terazza from Chile. The Italian notes in it are well-earned--the vintage is from a family and vines that emigrated from Perugia to the terraces in Chile, the same way they did back home."

The Cardinal again paused, this time smiling as he relished the wine. "You picked this for me, I see. I am no 'snob' as you say. And neither are you, Bishop Christopher. You never have been."

"Thank you, Your Eminence."

"But other things have changed since we last dined in Santa Fe."

It was Michael's turn to pause. "Oh?"

"Si, you are more guarded, like you protect something. But you have completely dispensed with the foolhardy attempt at romanitá. It is not that I prize the habitual cunning pursuit of intrigue that some unfortunates wield in Rome; there is a reason I am in America, eh? It is just that, when not in Rome, American bishops would do well to not do as the romanitás, shall we say."

Despite his wariness, Michael found that he could not help liking this man.

The Cardinal continued, "You are more yourself, but you are not yourself. It is as if you have arrived home safe only to find that it is someone else's empty home, like Chesterton's Manalive."

Michael's brow arched. "You read Chesterton, Your Eminence?"

"And Belloc. And Lewis. And Newman. These English today are not what they were. But then, perhaps, we nuncios are not what we should be today. Chesterton reminds me of what I am made to be. I fail, but so do you, eh?"

"Frankly, Your Eminence, I fail to see why I am here."

The Nuncio took another sip of the vine, then waved his hand. "Ah, the usual question--'Why me, Your Eminence?' All of you ask it, and it is a good question. More to the point, though, is how you are here."

"You mean you are going to reveal to me what led you to recommend me to Rome as Archbishop?"

Smiling, the Cardinal dipped back into his gumbo. "Perhaps." Loud slurp. The man was not worried about showing his enjoyment of the meal. Naomi was right--they all are really men. "I refer to the curious means by which you entered this city--a curiosity that has not escaped the clerics at the Nuncial offices."

Michael's stomach dropped, then a wave of relief surged over him. "Uh, Your Eminence, I was hoping you could shed more light on that for me. I was at the airport, then I blacked out. No one here seems to be able--or to want--to tell me any details."

"We are, how do you say? 'sketchy' on those points. You were found unconscious in a Dallas airport bathroom stall. We might have thought you had been assaulted and robbed, yet all your personal items were still with you, and the medical tests show no signs of a blow to the head. You remained comatose until in Houston. You know the rest."

"Sadly, Your Eminence, I don't. Much, if not all of my previous tenure in New Mexico is opaque to me. I have been reading all the minutes and records--including my personal journal--that I retrieved from Santa Fe. I feel like I am reading the life of another man. So, hopefully, you can see why I have been reluctant to immediately assume my duties here in Houston. I am not the man I was, and I'm hoping you can tell me who I am supposed to be as the Archbishop … such a question is obviously not romanitá but a frank admission that perhaps your expectations of me can no longer be what they were, Cardinal Pastore. I am not fit for this work, and that is no mere dose of humble piety. Why am I here?"

Michael wanted to tell him so badly, but he literally could not form the words to say "I'm not who you think I am!" And even if he could say such a thing to the Apostolic Nuncio, wouldn't it have the same effect--even on this astute and holy soul--that it had had on everyone in Houston? They all thought he was such a humble servant, patiently admitting his unworthiness.

Surprisingly, the Cardinal was not surprised. "Pfaw, Bishop Christopher! Do you think I think myself worthy of the work? None of us are qualified. Your admission smacks of no humility but is an observation of the obvious. All of us are frauds, right down to Saint Peter himself, sinking in the Sea of Galilee. You would do well to forget your past struggles and dive into this work like we are doing with this gumbo. Delicious!" He drank the rest of the bowl, shrimp and all.

Dabbing his mouth with the napkin, he pushed aside the bowl with a loud scrape on the kitchen table and eyed Michael, staring straight into his heart. "I recommended you, but His Holiness chose you for good reason. We have problems in Houston and America. Many thought that you were not the man for the work here--you played things too straight, too American, in Santa Fe, they said. But I see differently, and you are showing me now that I was right and that the Episcopacy committee in Houston was right about you."

Michael put his head in his hands, exasperated. "Right about what? I'm-- I'm--empty, Your Eminence. I'm alone here. I know nobody. I have no auxiliary bishops. I have a Diocesan Vicar who's very sure he knows every move I should make, right down to what clothes I should wear. I know nothing about 'how things are done' in Houston, nor what the problems are to which you refer. This isn't what my life is supposed to be, isn't what it had been … and I'm caught here, in the middle."

Something lit up in the Cardinal's gleaming hazel eyes. "Ah, what a place to be, Father! Like in your first pastoral appointment! There is a trite saying, my friend, but trite does not necessarily mean 'untrue': 'The present is a gift--that is why it is called the present!'"

Michael stared bewildered at the empty bowls on the table between them.

The Cardinal dove into the breach. "You need not explore your past--it is no precedent here. You need not look at the Archdiocese's past--for that is its problem. You need not worry about the future--auxiliaries will come; after all, the word, 'auxiliary' in the Latin means 'help.' And you do know somebody here. You are quite sensitive to the dignity of your housekeeper, Naomi, her family, and the truth that she is a human being. You know her as a Shepherd should."

That struck a chord in Michael, a tiny little ringing as of Christmas bells, signally the Light's breaching of the darkness he had been in. He had never thought there could be any other way with Naomi--it was natural to him to receive her blessings as eagerly as he would a bowl of her gumbo.

He looked up with a flash in his eye at the Nuncio.

"Yes!" urged the Cardinal. "Give yourself away. You are a present to Houston and the Church. Now be present to us all while staying in the Presence of our Lord. Let's go, you and I, bellies full of gumbo, to kneel before His Presence in the chapel, and you and I, my brother, will know that no matter where we are, He will always give us, His prodigal brothers, a bowl of soup."

After they knelt for what seemed hours, the two brothers talked of things until the light of dawn peered into the chapel. Later that morning, the Nuncio left, and Michael knew something of what he had to do.

The Bishop Tripped, Episode 8

2011-07-15T11:55:00.000-05:00

©Randall A. Beeler, 2011

This installment of theComedy is part of an original novel I am writing, called The Bishop Tripped: the story of a man, who, disillusioned, seeks to escape his life, only to be mistaken for a bishop--all the way to the miter, crozier, and diocesan bureaucracy.

None of this writing is edited. It is written as it happens, with every post I blog. No premeditation, other than a story trajectory in my imagination and the characters who will take it and run with it.

To start at the beginning of the story, either scroll down to, or click on, Episode 1.

So, live and as it happens, here is the next installment of The Bishop Tripped …

"Your Excellency, you do realize that the Papal Nuncio will be in attendance at your installation Mass." The Diocesan Vicar's eyebrows were raised. "You have to at least concelebrate. And I still don't see the wisdom in having me preside."

"Let the Papal Nuncio concelebrate. I will kneel at the Altar rail as an unworthy servant should," said Michael, waving his hand in the air, weary of the discussion.

"But Archbishop, I-- I-- it's not my place to celebrate this Mass. Let the Nuncio preside."

"No, Mat--I mean, Monsignor Morelli. I am setting a precedent for my visits to the parishes of the Archdiocese."

Matt, apparently also wearied by the debate rubbed his brows and murmured, "Well, Bishop, it's certainly not a precedent you set in Santa Fe. You said all your own Masses there, at every visit. And you are known for your preaching--"

"I will still preach a word for the weary, Monsignor. I just don't need to be front-and-center."

Matt sighed. "I just don't understand, Your Excellency. This is highly irregular. Rome will inquire."

"These are highly irregular times, Monsignor. And if Rome inquires, I will obediently answer. Subsidiarity is still a hallmark of the See of Peter."

At the Mass of Installation, the Nuncio did indeed show a reaction--which was no reaction. He stared straight ahead, but his eyes saw everything. Even when the Nuncio's gaze seemed to be taking in the congregation or the mosaics that lined the far-away vestibule, Michael felt they were looking straight into his lie.

The only time Michael was relieved of their yoke was when he preached, as he had said to Matt, "a word to the weary." If only the gathered knew how much of it was a word preached to himself:

Fresh from the waters and resplendent in these garments, God’s holy people hasten to the altar of Christ, saying: I will go in to the altar of God, to God who gives joy to my youth. They have sloughed off the old skin of error, their youth renewed like an eagle’s, and they make haste to approach that heavenly banquet. They come and, seeing the sacred altar prepared, cry out: You have prepared a table in my sight. David puts these words into their mouths: The Lord is my shepherd and nothing will be lacking to me. He has set me down there in a place of pasture. He has brought me beside refreshing water. Further on, we read: For though I should walk in the midst of the shadow of death, I shall not be afraid of evils, for you are with me. Your rod and your staff have given me comfort. You have prepared in my sight a table against those who afflict me. You have made my head rich in oil, and your cup, which exhilarates, how excellent it is.

It is wonderful that God rained manna on our fathers and they were fed with daily food from heaven. And so it is written: Man ate the bread of angels. Yet those who ate that bread all died in the desert. But the food that you receive, that living bread which came down from heaven, supplies the very substance of eternal life, and whoever will eat it will never die, for it is the body of Christ.

Consider now which is the more excellent: the bread of angels or the flesh of Christ, which is indeed the body that gives life. The first was manna from heaven, the second is above the heavens. One was of heaven, the other is of the Lord of the heavens; one subject to corruption if it was kept till the morrow, the other free from all corruption, for if anyone tastes of it with reverence he will be incapable of corruption. For our fathers, water flowed from the rock; for you, blood flows from Christ. Water satisfied their thirst for a time; blood cleanses you for ever. The Jew drinks and still thirsts, but when you drink you will be incapable of thirst. What happened in symbol is now fulfilled in reality.

After Mass, one of the acolytes, a young graduate engineering student named Daniel, kept staring at him as they disrobed in the sacristy. When the other celebrants had left, he approached Michael, tentatively. "Int-teresting hom-m-ily, B-bishop Christ-t-t-opher," he stuttered.

Michael looked at him hard. The stutter was not so much out of trepidation--rather, the young man had a speech impediment. Under that sincere gaze, Michael felt more exposed to the light than he had with anything the Nuncio said or did. He answered as honestly as he could. "I felt I needed to hear it--as a reminder of what the Eucharist is. I--I … don't ever want to toy with it."

Daniel now stared at him harder. "They w-weren't your words, Your Excellence, b-but they were g-good words, and you had the c-courage to p-p-preach them to us."

Michael's brows rose higher than Matt's ever could. "You have a good ear, son. And you're well read. They aren't my words--their Bishop Saint Ambrose's from roughly 1,600 years ago. And I needed the courage to preach them to me."

Daniel paused and finally looked down. When his eyes met Michael's again, a smile curled at the corners of the young man's mouth. "I wish m-more Bishops would p-preach the Church Fathers. All of us n-need to hear them n-n-new."

Michael blushed and stuttered out, "I had nothing else to say. I'm-I'm empty."

Clear as a bell, Daniel answered, "It is in your weakness that He perfects you."

As the young man left him, the Noon Angelus bells were ringing in some universe in the Cathedral far above the sacristy. And Michael saw himself in the mirror again as a new man.

The Bishop Tripped, Episode 7

2011-07-13T10:25:00.000-05:00

©Randall A. Beeler, 2011

This installment of theComedy is part of an original novel I am writing, called The Bishop Tripped: the story of a man, who, disillusioned, seeks to escape his life, only to be mistaken for a bishop--all the way to the miter, crozier, and diocesan bureaucracy.

None of this writing is edited. It is written as it happens, with every post I blog. No premeditation, other than a story trajectory in my imagination and the characters who will take it and run with it.

To start at the beginning of the story, either scroll down to, or click on, Episode 1.

So, live and as it happens, here is the next installment of The Bishop Tripped …

The knock on the study door broke in on what he had been reading from one of the old but very well preserved books left by bishops long dead:

Be disposed to follow Jesus wherever He wants. He chose poverty, humiliations, the cross. Will I not also receive these gifts since He created me, preserves me in life and has freed me from Hell? Still better, He has suffered for thirty years all kinds of pain in order to finally die on the cross as the most foul of men, and I would not want to suffer anything for His love?

The quote was Saint Teresa of the Andes, but the visitor was Naomi, come, presumably, to do some dusting. She was checking on him more frequently. "Hello, Naomi."

"Good morning, Bishop Chris," she said over her dusting, trying not to look like she was looking at what he was doing with himself. "Mah, mah, you is de reading-est Bishop I ever saw here. De rest of 'em jes kept a goin' from dawn to midnight. And when dey wasn't goin', dey was on de computer, a typin' away."

Michael lowered the book and looked up at her from the wingback chair. "Well, I haven't had much time to read of late. I thought I'd take that chance while I had it."

"Uh-huh," Naomi grunted as she continued to dust the same lamp for the third time.

Michael might as well as let this go on. He'd been foolish enough to have even responded to her first sally. "You don't like reading, Naomi?"

"I loves to read. Das one of de things I was praised for in school. I got my favorites, and I read 'em when I can."

"Buuuuuut … come on, Naomi, spit out whatever's bothering you about my reading."

That did it. The feather duster dropped to her side, one arm akimbo, the other hand waving like she was in the pulpit of the Church of the Wise Virgins' Lamp. "Now, Bishop, you deserves to read as much as de next man, but dere is a time to read and a time fo' doin'. Dat bump on yo' head is long gone. You has got to git doin' so that when you do read, it's a well-deserved rest!"

Michael smiled. "Naomi, why do I get the idea that several of my predecessor's regularly got the benefit of your wisdom?"

"Well now, some o' dem wasn't too keen on me talkin' at all. So I jes shut mah mouth an' let de actions do de talkin'. Some others just let me rattle on and paid me no heed till I was outta de room. Doan' matter. You bishops is men, but Bishop Chris, even a man has gots to do what he's called to do."

Laying the book aside, Michael rubbed his brow and leaned forward. "But Naomi, where do I begin? There's so much I don't know. I'm not the man for this job … I'm a fraud."

Naomi paused, her preachin' hand stalled mid-air. "Now I ain't evah heard no bishop say dat."

She paused to collect her thoughts. If Michael hadn't been sincerely asking her about what was troubling him, he might've relished the feat of having shocked her silence--even if the pause was only momentary.

Her preachin'-hand's index finger was on her chin. "Now, I'm not sayin' dey didn't think dat, but dey never woulda said it to no one, least of all de cleanin' lady!"

Michael cringed; he was exposed. Might as well happen this way--it was a deserved berating he was about to get, one that measured up to his ever thinking that he could pull off this deception. And why was he even doing it in the first place?

Naomi stared at him for what seemed like a full minute. Yet, her eyes were not focused on him. They saw something he could not see.

Then, the preachin'-hand shot up in the air again. "What you said is so true dat, it doan' bear repeating--cause it's so plain on de face. But dat's de best start you kin make! Of course you ain't up to de job! Who is?"

"Naomi, you hardly understand--I am not qualified to do the job. I can't even say Mass the right way."

A big laugh rolled out of Naomi. "Hah-haaaah! Lawdy, Bishop, ain't nobody done Mass de right way since way back when dey changed ever'thin'! I'm not sayin' we should go back to whatevah we was doin'--I wasn't even Catholic den, it was marrying mah husbad dat made me dat way--I'm jes sayin' dat all you priests seems to have yo variations and what not. Lawdy, everbuddies' heads a-spin when a new bishop comes here, 'cuz it's crazy tryin' to predict what dis one is gonna wanna do. How 'bout followin' de book, huh? Das a place to start fo' you. Dat's where you should be readin' up! Certainly would shock de socks offa ever'buddy hear if you was to do things de right way, dat's fo' sho! I doan' think anybody knows what dat is 'cuz we ain't never seen it! Hah-haaaaaaaa!"

The lamp being the only thing dusted--and that to perfection--Naomi left him there, his mouth hanging open, her job apparently done.

The Bishop Tripped, Episode 6

2011-07-12T09:25:00.001-05:00

©Randall A. Beeler, 2011

This installment of theComedy is part of an original novel I am writing, called The Bishop Tripped: the story of a man, who, disillusioned, seeks to escape his life, only to be mistaken for a bishop--all the way to the miter, crozier, and diocesan bureaucracy.

None of this writing is edited. It is written as it happens, with every post I blog. No premeditation, other than a story trajectory in my imagination and the characters who will take it and run with it.

To start at the beginning of the story, either scroll down to, or click on, Episode 1.

So, live and as it happens, here is the next installment of The Bishop Tripped …

… and not himself. At least not himself as he looked now--but the self he'd been when he'd taken the freeway exit to go to Love Field instead of to AmiCorp. He was the Archbishop now, an archbishop who looked incredibly like himself.

… and the gardener was … who was this gardener? Michael knew it was himself in the mirror two weeks ago. But who was that man now?

"You musta been stung already, 'cuz yer not saying a thing. What are ya in anaphylactic shock or sumthin'?"

That voice definitely was not his.

"Who are you?" Michael demanded.

The gardener just smiled and whispered to him, "Michael …"

Michael shook the scales from his eyes. "You!" he nearly shouted, then looked about to see if anyone else was in the garden.

"Don't worry," the gardener waved his hand. "There's no flaming swords around here." Then he wobbled his head and scanned the garden in a gesture of summation. "Of course, there ain't no trees of life here … yet."

"You!! You're the Bishop--from the airport!"

The gardener chuckled. "I can see that you still haven't shook off the--what'd they call it?--oh yeah, 'trauma' you suffered in the airport restroom. He's real astute, this one."

Sarcasm was the last thing Michael expected at this moment, but, then again, he'd thrown away expectations when, at that moment of truth with Matt last week, he'd adopted the rôle of Bishop. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

The dungaree-covered version of Michael held his arms opened wide (a shovel in his right hand) and scanned the garden. "I'm the gardener!" he hollered.

"Sshhh! Maybe we should take this outside the garden--"

"Hah!" guffawed the gardener. "He wants to take it outside! Boy, we're already outside! Anyway, you don't much seem to fancy flying the cover of this coop. Of course, covers are what yer all about, eh?"

"SShhh," Michael hissed. "I mean, take it outside the garden, into my, um, study."

"Your study? Boy, he's taken on airs!" Michael got the disturbing feeling that the gardener wasn't talking to him so much as to an audience surrounding them in the clouds. "That is, if you were being honest with yourself (and others) my study. And this is my garden that yer pecking around in. You're here on sufferance, son. Anyway, I ain't too keen on goin' anywhere with you. I'm liking this little role-playing I'm getting to do a lot more than I'd liked being a bishop. That's your job now."

And Michael could never remember how it happened, but the gardener turned around and was gone. He didn't *poof*, didn't walk away. He just turned around and was gone.

From the other side of the grape arbor, he could here the snipping of clippers. He raced around to find the gardener but saw only Miguel.

"Good day, Bishop Christopher," paused Miguel over the hedge he was clipping. "Are you alright?"

"No, I'm not really feeling myself," Michael said and stumbled away, never naming himself for Miguel.

The Bishop Tripped, Episode 5

2011-07-11T10:33:00.001-05:00

©Randall A. Beeler, 2011

This installment of theComedy is part of an original novel I am writing, called The Bishop Tripped: the story of a man, who, disillusioned, seeks to escape his life, only to be mistaken for a bishop--all the way to the miter, crozier, and diocesan bureaucracy.

None of this writing is edited. It is written as it happens, with every post I blog. No premeditation, other than a story trajectory in my imagination and the characters who will take it and run with it.

To start at the beginning of the story, either scroll down to, or click on, Episode 1.

So, live and as it happens, here is the next installment of The Bishop Tripped …

The most difficult thing was going to be saying Mass, but Michael figured that he could beg off that for the time being based on his recent trauma, whatever that was. What bothered him most about this ruse was that he couldn't bring himself to violate the mark of the priesthood. Oh, he knew the Mass--how could he forget it? But to say it would be a defamation, a blasphemy. He wasn't a priest--but he seemed to be the only soul around this place that knew that!

Everyone fawned on him, except the housekeeper, Naomi. She didn't seem fazed by anybody. "Bishop Chris, I've seen mah share o' Bishops and Archbishops and what not. You all is men, with bellies and hearts and good souls. It ain't that I ain't a good Catholic or that I don't respect what de bishop do. Nope, I love you all. I jes always 'member that you is men. Y'know, I wash all de underwear, now don' I?"

He tried to stay around Naomi as much as would be plausible for "Bishop Christopher" while he "recuperated."

Speaking of which, he actually felt fine, like a load had been lifted. Yes, there was a dull ache for the mansion in his heart where Mara dwelt, but that room was locked up for the time being. He spent his time reading--mainly the General Instruction on the Roman Missal and Canon Law. Of course he said his Daily Office--he had never given that up, even when he'd left the path to the priesthood in his Diaconal year.

The Episcopal gardens were his favorite haunt. Easter was early this year, so the lilies were still blooming, and the Houston heat-miasma index had not yet reached the fourth-circle-of-Hades proportions that it would come Summer. He'd sit under the mustang grape arbor and read Morning Prayer, the bees around him humming like they had come alive straight out of the Papal Coat-of-Arms donated to the Archdiocese by John Paul II during his papal visit to Texas. He'd refused any advances from Matt regarding the media and exposure to the flock--things he knew he couldn't long put off.

"Your Excellence, the laity will be wondering what has become of you. As of yet, no one knows of how we found you in the Dallas airport men's room, unconscious and bleeding at the temples. Thankfully, Airport Security have not allowed the matter to reach the police blotter, but the media, especially the Catholic Press, are awaiting a statement and some sign that you have taken up residence. Moreover, your installment Mass is next Sunday."

Michael just nodded as he had walked down the ochre-carpeted hall to "his" study. "Well, Msgr. Morelli, a personage as distinguished as Abraham Lincoln had to sneak into Washington in disguise and under the cover of early morning darkness. He made out fine, I believe."

Matt paused. "Your Excellence, he was shot in the head by John Wilkes Booth."

Michael nodded and murmured to himself as he paused over the remembered conversation, "Well, it could've been worse--he could've been shot in the heart and bled out …"

"You'll more than murmur if one of them bees stings you!" said a voice from behind. He turned and saw the green-clothed, sweat-stained back of the gardener, a personage he'd had yet to meet. Name of Miguel.

When the gardener turned, Michael was stung by the face he saw … for it was himself.

The Bishop Tripped, Episode 4

2011-07-10T16:15:00.000-05:00

©Randall A. Beeler, 2011

This installment of the Comedy is part of an original novel I am writing, called The Bishop Tripped: the story of a man, who, disillusioned, seeks to escape his life, only to be mistaken for a bishop--all the way to the miter, crozier, and diocesan bureaucracy.

None of this writing is edited. It is written as it happens, with every post I blog. No premeditation, other than a story trajectory in my imagination and the characters who will take it and run with it.

To start at the beginning of the story, either scroll down to, or click on, Episode 1.

So, live and as it happens, here is the next installment of The Bishop Tripped …

His eyes opened, and he saw Matt at his bedside, praying the Breviary. The Diocesan Vicar looked up and stared hard at him, an unguarded look on his face that Michael had seen rarely, even at seminary. "Who are you?" the Vicar asked Michael.

"Where I am--I mean, where am I?" Michael responded groggily. "This ain't the hospital, so I'm trusting that I won't be sledgehammered again by another syringe-wielding doctor."

The Vicar sighed, "An unfortunate precautionary measure, Your Excellency. Obviously, the hospital was disorienting you. We thought the Episcopal Residence would provide greater comfort and a chance for you to get settled."

Obviously, this wasn't a joke. Matt was dead serious about this whole Bishop thing. "So we're in the Archdiocese of Houston, right?"

The Vicar looked cautiously reassured. "Yes, indeed we are … your new home."

Michael looked around the room--a four-poster bed, flat-light-olive walls tastefully decorated in turn-of-the-century art work and furnishings, including a nightstand, bureau, wardrobe, bookcase, and prie-dieu, from over which an icon of Our Lady of Mt. Carmel stared at him. "Genuine hardwood floors and a Persian rug. Very nice. All the comforts the faithful can provide," Michael murmured.

"Yes, Your Excellence. We in Houston are quite proud of our heritage in Texas, and I know you must be anxious about your ascendancy to an arch-bishopric. We've been worried about the confusion you showed at the hospital. I'm glad to see that transporting you here has taken off some of the edge."

Michael stared at Matt for a good ten seconds during which his old seminary friend never broke character. He was in earnest--this thing, whatever it was, was real.

"Do you have a mirror I can glance at?"

Matt retrieved a small shaving mirror from the bathroom and handed it to him.

Michael couldn't hide the flinch as he saw himself--as someone else. He stared longer at the reflected image a lot longer than he had at Matt.

It was him, and it was not him. The face staring back at him was more worn with cares than he'd remembered, as if the breach with Mara had taken a toll on him that was not revealed till now. Still staring into the mirror, he raised his left hand to his temple to touch the white hair that had never before been there … till now … he looked like Dad had just before he'd …

"Bishop Christopher," asked Matt. "Are you alright?"

Slowly, Michael lowered the mirror and prepared to meet the gaze of the Vicar. This was a moment of decision. He could again try to shake this dream--this amnesia, this nightmare, once and for all. He could get up and scream like a madman that he was no Bishop, that he was far from home, that he was married, for Christ's sake!

Or he could play along. Could be someone else for a while.

His gaze met Matt's.

After all, isn't that what he'd wanted when he'd left Mara in darkness?

The Bishop Tripped, Episode 3

2011-07-10T12:56:00.001-05:00

This installment of the Comedy is part of an original novel I am writing, called The Bishop Tripped: the story of a man, who, disillusioned, seeks to escape his life, only to be mistaken for a bishop--all the way to the miter, crozier, and diocesan bureaucracy.

None of this writing is edited. It is written as it happens, with every post I blog. No premeditation, other than a story trajectory in my imagination and the characters who will take it and run with it.

To start at the beginning of the story, either scroll down to or click on Episode 1.

So, live and as it happens, here is the next installment of The Bishop Tripped …

He couldn't face Mara. So he left for work in the pre-dawn hours.

They'd set up a home for a family, living farther out of the Metroplex so that they could afford a house on his salary alone.

But the kids hadn't come. They'd tried so many doctors, with nothing precluded as to the cause of infertility. The possibilities abounded--it could be her, after all, her mother'd had a history of endometreosis. Endless sperms counts proved inconclusive--sometimes up, sometimes down. They'd even tried the most reliable method, Creighton, tracking her cycle. Nothing. No answers.

He worked hard, and she deserved better. The more that she didn't hold him guilty, that she just took it and received just his presence as a gift, the more he hated himself and stared back at her with recrimination. He could've taken blame and abandonment from her. Things hadn't worked out the way they'd planned them. But she stayed like it was … natural, like it was her duty. And that he couldn't abide. Duty, not love.

So, he'd made himself a ghost to her long before he was gone.

The Bishop Tripped, Episode 2

2011-05-30T10:33:00.000-05:00

This installment of the Comedy is part of an original novel I am writing, called The Bishop Tripped: the story of a man, who, disillusioned, seeks to escape his life, only to be mistaken for a bishop--all the way to the miter, crozier, and diocesan bureaucracy.

None of this writing is edited. It is written as it happens, with every post I blog. No premeditation, other than a story trajectory in my imagination and the characters who will take it and run with it.

To start at the beginning of the story, either scroll down to or click on Episode 1.

So, live and as it happens, here is the next installment of The Bishop Tripped …

When Mat-the-wanna-be-Diocesan-Vicar returned, he had Dr. Barfield in tow. "Matt, c'mon!" protested Michael. "The joke's gone too far. What the heck is going on here? And I'm getting out of this hospital bed, if only to pee."

The Diocesan Vicar shot a knowing glance at Dr. Barfield, and the two conferees started whispering together while Michael, on somewhat rubbery legs trotted to the toilet to answer the call of nature. He was in such a hurry that he never closed the door and noticed that Matt hastily did so behind him.

While he stood there pondering the thoughts of a peeing man, he tried to sort things out. Was he drugged up? Did someone slip him a roofie? He didn't feel drugged. Confused, yes, but not under-the-influence. And why were those two clowns out there still, uh … clowning around? If only he could remember what the heck had gone on in the last 24. With a sharp pang, he recalled that he'd driven to Love Field instead of going to work--he'd wanted to escape … Mara.

He shook his head to clear out the cobwebs and push down the memory. Shake the dew off the lily and go out there to get these guys straight.

He stepped out and started shedding his ultra-chic hospital gown. Matt immediately tried to turn Barfield away. "For crissakes, Matt! We were on the seminary swim team together--and he's a doctor for cryin' out loud!"

He stood there in the buff, now, arms akimbo, head swinging back-and-forth, searching the room. "Where the heck are my clothes?"

He spied the closet and immediately moved that way. Matt picked up Michael's shed gown and tried to step between Michael and the closet. "Uh, Bishop Christopher, Dr. Barfield and I both think you should reconsider going anywhere today. Why not put the gown back on or, um, if you prefer, just get back into bed, um … the way you are?"

"Yes," Dr. Barfield concurred. "Although we cannot discover a blow to the head, all your tests indicate trauma-like effects to your cerebrum, especially the frontal lobe, which governs inhibitions. To put it bluntly, Bishop, you are not yourself."

Michael opened the closet to find black clericals and the same pectoral cross the Bishop had been wearing. Turning to them, he held out the clothes and said, "Fellas, you certainly are thorough, all the way down to the civvies. Look, I don't know what's going on here, but it's no longer amusing. I've got a life to live, alright? And it has nothing to do with being a Bishop. Now, dammit, let me call Mara, and get the hell back to Dallas."

At the mention of the name, Mara, Matt's eyebrow shot up, and he glanced at Dr. Barfield who was already swinging into action. "You're right," said Barfield. "We aren't amusing, are we? Here, let me take those clothes away and get you your regular ones."

Michael started to hand over the clericals to the Doctor, but instead of taking them, Barfield simply grabbed his left arm and injected a syringe into the valve protruding from Michael's IV tape. Too swiftly, the blackness returned.

The Bishop Tripped, Episode 1

2011-05-29T11:44:00.000-05:00

Greetings to all those who follow The Catholic Comedy. As many of you know, this site has been less active than normal due to busy-ness in my work and family life. However, in an effort to renew the Comedy, I am trying something different.

This installment of the Comedy is part of an original novel I am writing, called The Bishop Tripped: the story of a man, who, disillusioned, seeks to escape his life, only to be mistaken for a bishop--all the way to the miter, crozier, and diocesan bureaucracy.

None of this writing is edited. It is written as it happens, with every post I blog. No premeditation, other than a story trajectory in my imagination and the characters who will take it and run with it.

So, live and as-it-happens, here is the first installment of The Bishop Tripped …

As Michael Shephard waited for the now-late Jet Blue Flight #J1016 to arrive at Love Field boarding gate 19A, he knew a Bishop was staring at him. From across the row, he saw the pectoral cross, the Roman collar, the spectales, and the whitening hair at the temples. The presbyter stared at Michael like he knew him in some beyond-this-world way, knew him completely.

But that was all Michael could remember.

He awoke to a clean-shaven, scrubbed, stethoscoped, mint-fresh breathed man shining a pen-flashlight into his eyes. "Pupils no longer dilated," the doctor said to himself as if a scribe inside his head was marking a case log inside his brain.

"Can you hear me, Your Excellency?" he said in the same monotone to Michael.

Was he talking to his mental note-taker again?

"Bishop Christopher, can you hear me?" The doctor was staring straight at him. Why was that Bishop's name familiar?

"I know you must be able to hear me, Your Excellency, because your eyes are reacting to the sound of my voice."

Michael looked around the room for the Bishop, but only he in his bed and the doctor on his rolling stool occupied the space.

"Bishop Christopher, you are in the Head-Trauma unit of Saint Maria Goretti Hospital. You have suffered what appears to be the results of a blunt-force trauma to the cranium, but we simply cannot find any physical trauma. Your head looks untouched and x-rays, CAT scans, and MRI reveal no internal injury. However, your brain patterns are radically different from the last MRI you had two years ago in Santa Fe."

"Are you talking to me, Doctor?"

"My name is Dr. Barfield--I'm the Chief Neurologist at SMG. The disorientation you're experiencing is certainly not uncommon to those experiencing cranial trauma. In fact, I warn you that you may undergo some significant temporary--or even permanent--personality changes. Do you understand what I'm saying to you, Bishop Christopher?"

The Bishop! The Bishop at the airport--that was where he had heard that name before. "Uh, yes, I am feeling confused, but perhaps there's been some mistake--I'm not a Bishop. I met a Bishop Christopher at Love Field, but I'm the last thing you expect to be a Bishop. I was once in seminary … but that was long ago."

Dr. Barfield's brow furrowed. "I was in seminary, as an undergrad, for a short time. In my Sophomore year, I knew I had to be a doctor. Your confusion should clear up after a bit, for none of the tests demonstrate anything consistent with long-term memory loss. Do you need the Sacrament?"

"What?"

"The Diocesan Vicar has been waiting here all night. Perhaps talking with him will help you gain your bearings."

Before Michael could stop him, the Doctor was out the door. Michael looked down at himself. He seemed the same--mole on the back of his right hand, childhood scar on the inside of his left forearm, above which an IV pumped some clear fluid into his left arm. But where was his wedding band? He looked around for his personal belongings on the nightstand but there he found only a plastic cup and pitcher of water.

What is Lord's name was going on? Saint Maria Goretti Hospital? Wasn't that in Houston? Had he forgotten an entire plane ride and how he landed in a hospital bed? He felt around for bumps or wounds to his head but found only his usual hair. A taste like iron stuck to the roof of his mouth and he was starting to realize that he needed to go to the bathroom.

The door opened and a soutaned man with a worried expression stepped in, his face lighting up when he looked at Michael.

"Thank God you've come around, Your Excellency! You've been unconscious for nearly 24 hours."

Michael looked searchingly at the man … something was undeniably familiar about his face. He could see it and recognize it but only a man gradually infers the image of a person when looking only at a shadow.

"Bishop Christopher, are you alright? Can I get you some water?"

Michael tried to speak, but he couldn't form the words. He squinted his eyes and made a few abortive attempts to say what was being dredged up from deep memory before the Diocesan Vicar poured some water and placed a cup in his hand.

Almost as if the water carried an electrical current, Michael dropped it tumbling to the floor and at the same moment shouted "Matt! Matt Morelli!"

The man had darted into the bathroom to retrieve some paper towels to mop up the water. When he returned and finally raised his head up from dabbing away the spill, his face was level with Michael's gaze, and Michael was sure--"Matthew Morelli! Son of a--"

"Yes, Bishop. I'm Msgr. Morelli. We met last month, after your appointment to the Arch-Diocese had been officially announced."

"So your the pranskter behind all this!" Michael laughed. "I might've known it would be you. But after all these years--why go to these lengths? I mean, we haven't seen each other since I left during my pastoral year!"

The would-be Monsignor cocked his head and looked at Michael with renewed concern. "Um, Your Excellency, I'm going to talk with Dr. Barfield for a moment. I'll be right back."

To be continued …

GREAT New Blog--The Theology of Laundry!

2011-04-17T08:39:00.000-05:00

The Theology of Laundry is a GREAT new blog by my friend, Marissa Nichols, who, in a Brother Lawrence/Saint Therese way, explores the contemplative life of those who courageously and counter-culturally stay at home to raise their children. Good stuff! The Comedy says, "Follow it profusely!"

Temptation Comes in Many Forms

2011-03-20T19:36:00.000-05:00

Tonight, I was vituperating over President Obama's bombing Libya, and my 18-year-old son chanted (as I uttered words that would make a longshoreman blush), "Write-a-blog! Write-a-blog!"

I have decided, in the wake of this get-thee-behind-me-Satan moment, to respectfully decline that offer.

Saint Anthony never faced temptations like this, eh?

Silence says a thousand words.

Vade! Retro draco!!

Are You Courageous Enough to Be A Priest?

2011-03-19T13:48:00.000-05:00

Given the saturation of media attention aimed at Catholic priests for the criminality of the few who abused others and that of those who hid their crimes, it should come as no surprise that the backlash is an abuse of the vast majority of loving, courageous priests through a spate of false accusations. So the heinous crimes of a few reverberate to scar the innocent, as well as make a mockery of those who really were abused.

The word "courageous" comes from a root word, cor, meaning "full of heart." Archbishop of New York, Timothy Dolan is indelibly marked, heart and soul, as a priest in persona Christi. His response to being publicly accosted—merely for being a priest—demonstrates the heart of Christ.

Please read it at:

http://blog.archny.org/?p=1127

The University of Dallas & The Church—Thank You for Your Support!

2011-03-06T12:10:00.002-06:00

I recently wrote an open letter to Thomas Keefe, President of the University of Dallas (UD), regarding the then-pending UD Board vote to empower the School of Ministry (SOM) to offer an undergraduate major degree program in Pastoral Theology.

I am pleased to report that President Keefe, true to his word of being open to dialogue, has responded to my letter (which I also sent him directly), in a formulated email, but, given that President Keefe received upwards of 250 emails about the School of Ministry vote, I can't really say I blame him!

In reply to his response and to the letter of Bishop Vann and the video of Bishop Farrell, I write the following column, which I am also sending directly by email to them and President Keefe.

Dear UD Current Students, Alumni, and Supporters,

During the University of Dallas' (UD's) deliberations on empowering the School of Ministry (SOM), I have entered this dialogue because I and my family dearly love the Church and have invested so much into UD—my wife is a graduate student in SOM, my two older children have attended UD, and my youngest son, Killian, is in the process of receiving his financial aid package for his hoped-for matriculation at UD into the Class of 2015

Dialogue is the essence of what President Keefe, our Bishops, me, and my family prize about UD: a public engagement of the Truth in a spirit of self-giving love. As a result of dialoguing with President Keefe, UD students, and UD alumni, and taking in Bishop Vann's letter and Bishop Farrell's video, I am blessed to urge all of us to give our Shepherds and those who are authoring and steering this program the chance to do what they are genuinely seeking to do:

hold SOM academically and magisterially accountable (in a way that SOM heretofore has not been), and
enable SOM to exert in EVERYBODY'S esteem a positive, loving influence on the University.

If many of us descry SOM professors and SOM-used texts for dissenting from Magisterial teaching, perhaps we also should not be too quick to dissent from Magisterial teaching as it manifests itself in the form of our local ordinaries and those whom God provides to lead the University.

Hmm. Perhaps I should have looked ahead to this Sunday's Gospel (Matt 7:21-27, DRE) before I opened my big fat blog-post on Wednesday.

As Jesus notes, neither sincerity of intent nor eagerness to solve a problem equate to a truly knowing and intimate embrace of the will of God. Jesus isn't talking about malefactors, deceivers, and Magisterial dissenters alone—He points the finger at the Apostles who had been so marvelously exorcising demons and performing miracles and, in general, feeling peachy about being defenders of the Faith.

If Jesus' words are a come-uppance to the Apostles, uh, what do they mean for a vocally passionate defensor-fidei-wanna-be like me?

I, and all of us, might well then ask, like the Disciples elsewhere did: how is anyone to get into heaven, if he can go so astray even in a passionate defense of the Faith?

As we know, Jesus elsewhere replies that what is impossible for men is possible for God, and, in Matt 7:21-27, DRE, He bases that potency of God on the Rock, an allusion not merely to engineering but to the tropological significance of the Church itself—the Rock, which, He proclaims in Matt 16 is Peter himself, the one who would deny Him.

Um, so I'm in pretty good company, right? Heh-heh? Gulp.

The irony of founding an unshakable Church on very shakable human beings like Saint Peter (and alums like me) highlights Christ's intention that the Church and its teaching witness are what steadies our shaky constructions throughout the ages.

When I was in Art and Arch., Dr. Lyle Novinski once noted that, due to the shifting undercrust of the Irving landscape, the UD Tower is equipped with underground hydraulic supports that compensate for every twist and turn of vengeful Irving. The UD Tower is founded on an unseen rock, so to speak, and is thus a potent parable for this latest uproar.

Throughout my years as an undergraduate and alum, I witnessed (and took part in) numerous "the sky is falling/they're gonna pervert the Core" incidents. Might these reactions to attempts to change the Core Curriculum or the University themselves be like the shifting Irving caliche?

If so, then I may also parabolically have lost sight of the many hydraulic supports under the foundation—the Rocks, which, though shifted by the exigencies of the times, keep the University in balance.

Bishops Farrell and Vann, and President Keefe, as well as those who have constructed the foundation of the SOM undergrad program are expressions of the Rock that I was too quick to throw sand on.

My and Dr. Fagan's pointing out the academic weaknesses and Magisterial infidelity of the SOM graduate program may actually make the strongest case for what UD and the Bishops are here doing—this new program is the means by which such problems are being addressed.

And those shepherds, whom God has put into place, deserve our support—and not an impatient piety that sees the Church in terms of what I think is the way to defend the Faith.

I and other well-intentioned students, alums, and supporters have rightfully asked here: What happens when the Rock itself is attacked?

The response that rings back in my ear like an echo flashing back across the hog pen to Ruby Turpin is: What happens when your good intentions attack the Rock?

At some point, a stupid answer has to awaken a stupid questioner to his stupid question.

That's where I am. I know that others might disagree with me and continue to argue that the SOM undergrad program is the hand-shaped cloud before the storm. (I well know, for I myself used such wording in a recent Facebook wall post.)

I respect that. But I have learned something as I scrape the egg off my face: sometimes, egg gives me x-ray vision to see through to a bedrock I hadn't realized was there. I want to give our Bishops and President Keefe the chance to support the Church and UD in these shifting time.

In the immortal words of the old Bartles and James Wine-Cooler commercials, "Thank you for your support!"

In Christ and Mother Mary,

Randall A. Beeler (Class of 1985)

The Truth About Abortion

2011-01-06T10:09:00.000-06:00

Event: January 10 9 PM Eastern

After winning the legal battle against a massive Planned Parenthood lawsuit and restraining order – which was intended to silence her – former abortion clinic director Abby Johnson is finally ready to blow the whistle on her former employer and tell the shocking truth about everything she saw inside the abortion industry — and why she resigned her job to join the pro-life movement.

Abby’s entire story has never been revealed publicly … UNTIL NOW!

On Tuesday, January 11, Abby’s story will be released to the world in her landmark book, Unplanned, published jointly by Tyndale House, Focus on the Family, and Ignatius Press.

One night before — on Monday, January 10, at 9 PM Eastern (8 PM Central, 7 PM Mountain, 6 PM Pacific) – YOU are invited to join Abby for a live webcast “sneak preview” of the no-holds-barred revelations which fill the pages of her book.

What initially attracted Abby to volunteer and then work for Planned Parenthood — America’s largest abortion chain — even after being raised in a faithful Christian home
The hidden personal secret that Abby had kept buried for years
The shocking discovery that suddenly caused Abby to question everything Planned Parenthood had told her over eight years
Planned Parenthood’s confidential plans to expand its biggest money-maker – abortion – all across America
The abortion industry’s furious reaction when Abby decided to quit her job and join local and national pro-life efforts
What Abby’s court battle brought to light about Planned Parenthood’s REAL agenda
The single most effective way to reduce Planned Parenthood’s abortion business and change the hearts and minds of clinic workers

You won’t want to miss this eye-opening webcast event … and when you scroll to the bottom of this page and register, you will also be given the entire first chapter of Unplanned for FREE – before it is even released!

Here’s what prominent leaders are already saying about Unplanned:

JIM DALY, Focus on the Family – “Think love and kindness can’t make a difference in the abortion debate? Read Abby Johnson’s story and find out how a pro-life ministry’s peaceful and respectful witness forever changed the heart of this former Planned Parenthood clinic director.”

DR. ALVEDA KING, niece of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. – “Unplanned is a powerful and compelling testimony of the power of prayer and love. A story of courage, conviction, and conversion, the book will draw you into Abby’s life and her journey as her eyes are opened to the truth.”

ARCHBISHOP CHARLES CHAPUT, Archdiocese of Denver – “Beautifully written, intimate and honest. A wonderful portrait of the power of truth and grace working in the human heart.”

RANDY ALCORN, Author – “I’m grateful to Abby Johnson for having the courage to tell her story as a former director of a Planned Parenthood clinic in Unplanned. In this unique and compelling book, Abby shows the compassionate hearts of some of her coworkers, takes responsibility for her own participation in abortions, and shares the journey of how God in his grace and mercy delivered her from blindness.”

PEGGY HARTSHORN, Heartbeat International – “I could not put this book down. Abby’s honest and riveting account sheds light on the fact that some Christians are conflicted but satisfied with the goal of ‘making abortion safe and rare.’ Abby finally had the courage to face the truth about abortion because of the way Christ’s love was reflected through the prayer, courage, and support of individual Christians.”

TONY PERKINS, Family Research Council – “In Unplanned, Abby shares intimate details of the happenings that ultimately led her to leave her career as a Planned Parenthood abortion clinic director for ‘the other side of the fence,’ where she now ardently advocates for the rights of the unborn. If you have ever peacefully protested and prayed for an end to abortion, Abby’s story will provide tremendous insights — and encourage you never to give up.”

MARJORIE DANNENFELSER, Susan B. Anthony List – “Abby’s story is one of great moral courage in an age that groans for it. Hers is a modern parable of hope for us all, wintessing to the truth that sets the human heart free. A riveting story.”

EDUARDO VERASTEGUI, Actor, star of Bella – “Abby understands how good people can be misled, as she was, to support abortion under the guise of helping women. This is the remarkable story of how one director of a Planned Parenthood clinic came to realize the truth about abortion — and what she did about it.”

JUDIE BROWN, American Life League – “This remarkable book is destined to reshape the culture of death into a culture of love, life, and hope … it’s a life-changer!”

FR. BENEDICT GROESCHEL, CFR, Host of “Sunday Night Live” on EWTN – “The moving story of the shocking truth of abortion and how God’s love and forgiveness transformed Abby’s life.”

LILA ROSE, Live Action – “Abby Johnson is one of the bravest women I know. Once she realized the truth, Abby had the courage to leave the abortion industry and become a powerful voice of the defenseless. Her inspiring story challenges us to face the truth about the abortion industry and its many victims.”

JIM SEDLAK, STOPP International – “Abby pulls down the walls of Planned Parenthood and lets us see the denial that takes place inside. Her story reveals the power of God. I highly recommend this book!”

THERESA BURKE, PH.D., NCP, Rachel’s Vineyard Ministries – “Abby Johnson made her living upon the false presumption that abortion is good for women and compassionate for their babies. But one day she changed her mind. This book will help others to reach a similar moment of illumination and sanity. Now, more than ever, we need to embrace the painful reality of what abortion does to our humanity and our culture.”

PETER KREEFT, Author and Professor at Boston College – “A compellingly candid story! Not argument or ideology but data — first-person facts and utterly honest feelings.”

The announcement about this one-time-only event is being sent to hundreds of thousands of people around the world, and there is limited space available. To grab your spot before the webcast is filled up, simply go to:

http://unplannedwebcast.com/

Seeing the Christmas in Christ

2010-12-24T11:40:00.000-06:00

Anthony Esolen has done such a fabulous job of reminding us of the Incarnation that I dare not attempt a similar assay or essay!

Read and enjoy!

http://www.insidecatholic.com/feature/putting-the-christmas-back-in-christ.html

Ya Gotta Love the Burgh!

2010-12-18T12:25:00.000-06:00

I grew up in the mountainous areas 50 miles southeast of Pittsburgh, PA, and I remember the city, the people, and its teams with vivid fondness.

What you fall in love with about Pittsburgh is the melting-pot openness of the people. Pittsburgh is a literal melting pot: waves of English, Germans, Scots, Irish, Croatians, Russians, Greeks, Czechs, Slovaks, Serbs, Poles, and my beloved Italians all came to the Pittsburgh area to melt and smelt coal and iron ore into steel.

Even though the coke ovens and the steel mills are mostly relics of the past, the Burgh is still all about people melding together, neighborhood-by-neighborhood, borough-by-borough, hollow-by-hollow, to create a hospitality and welcome that is completely unique, completely nutty, completely beloved. By celebrating its differences, Pittsburgh crafts its own diversity and uniqueness without the ham-fisted manipulation of a so-called "political correctness."

Pittsburgh is political in the best sense of the word—it is a polis, a city that is what it is because it unites humankind in the glorious, grace-filled diversity inherent to our human dignity:

We can see that, transcending all the differences which distinguish individuals and peoples, there is a fundamental commonality. For different cultures are but different ways of facing the question of the meaning of personal existence. And it is precisely here that we find one source of the respect which is due to every culture and every nation: every culture is an effort to ponder the mystery of the world and in particular of the human person: it is a way of giving expression to the transcendent dimension of human life. The heart of every culture is its approach to the greatest of all mysteries: the mystery of God. (Pope John Paul II, Address to the United Nations, October 5, 1995).

Here is a little viral post that inspired this blog post and which is so Burgh-erific!

A Pittsburgh Christmas Carol

Yinz better wahtch aht

Yinz better not paht

Yinz better not cry,

I'm tellin yinz hauscome

Santa Clause is commin' dahntahn

He's makin' a list

He's checkin' it aht

He's gowen find aht who's nebby an at

Santa Clause is commin' dahntahn

He knows if yinzes a jaggoff

He can see inside your haus

He knows if you've been workin' hard

Or sittin' on your caach

Yinz better wahtch aht

Yinz better not paht

Yinz better not cry,

I'm tellin yinz hauscome

Santa Clause is commin'

dahntahn.....

What is frightening is that this

is perfectly understood by those of us

that have grown to love the Burgh.
IT IS SCARY, ISN'T IT? I understood the entire meaning.

Merry Christmas!

Life to Me Means Christ, and Death Is Gain

2010-09-13T12:25:00.000-05:00

Today, I re-post from the Daily Office of Readings this excerpt from a sermon by Saint John Chrysostom, Whose Feast Day is today.

Not only are the Saint's words still timely, they also emphasize the immense blessing that DivineOffice.org offers all of us around the world of praying the Liturgy of the Hours. Go to their site, donate, download their iPad/iPhone app for free. Enjoy. Learn. Grow in the love of the Lord.

From a homily by Saint John Chrysostom, bishop

Life to me means Christ, and death is gain

The waters have risen and severe storms are upon us, but we do not fear drowning, for we stand firmly upon a rock. Let the sea rage, it cannot break the rock. Let the waves rise, they cannot sink the boat of Jesus. What are we to fear? Death? Life to me means Christ, and death is gain. Exile? The earth and its fullness belong to the Lord. The confiscation of goods? We brought nothing into this world, and we shall surely take nothing from it. I have only contempt for the world’s threats, I find its blessings laughable. I have no fear of poverty, no desire for wealth. I am not afraid of death nor do I long to live, except for your good. I concentrate therefore on the present situation, and I urge you, my friends, to have confidence.

Do you not hear the Lord saying: Where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I in their midst? Will he be absent, then, when so many people united in love are gathered together? I have his promise; I am surely not going to rely on my own strength! I have what he has written; that is my staff, my security, my peaceful harbor. Let the world be in upheaval. I hold to his promise and read his message; that is my protecting wall and garrison. What message? Know that I am with you always, until the end of the world!

If Christ is with me, whom shall I fear? Though the waves and the sea and the anger of princes are roused against me, they are less to me than a spider’s web. Indeed, unless you, my brothers, had detained me, I would have left this very day. For I always say Lord, your will be done; not what this fellow or that would have me do, but what you want me to do. That is my strong tower, my immovable rock, my staff that never gives way. If God wants something, let it be done! If he wants me to stay here, I am grateful. But wherever he wants me to be, I am no less grateful.

Yet where I am, there you are too, and where you are, I am. For we are a single body, and the body cannot be separated from the head nor the head from the body. Distance separates us, but love unites us, and death itself cannot divide us. For though my body die, my soul will live and be mindful of my people.

You are my fellow citizens, my fathers, my brothers, my sons, my limbs, my body. You are my light, sweeter to me than the visible light. For what can the rays of the sun bestow on me that is comparable to your love? The sun’s light is useful in my earthly life, but your love is fashioning a crown for me in the life to come.

RESPONSORY
Because I preach the Gospel, I suffer hardships
even to the point of being thrown into chains like a criminal,
but the word of God is not chained.
– I endure all of this for the sake of the chosen.
The Lord is my light and my salvation;
whom should I fear?
– I endure all of this for the sake of the chosen.

CONCLUDING PRAYER
Father,
the strength of all who trust in you,
you made John Chrysostom
renowned for his eloquence
and heroic in his sufferings.
May we learn from his teaching
and gain courage from his patient endurance.
We ask this through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son,
who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit,
one God, for ever and ever.
– Amen.

This Laboring Day Remember Our Priests Who Labor

2010-09-06T12:25:00.000-05:00

9 For I think that God has set forth us apostles, the last, as it were men appointed to death. We are made a spectacle to the world and to angels and to men. 10 We are fools for Christ's sake, but you are wise in Christ: we are weak, but you are strong: you are honourable, but we without honour. 11 Even unto this hour we both hunger and thirst and are naked and are buffeted and have no fixed abode. 12 And we labour, working with our own hands. We are reviled: and we bless. We are persecuted: and we suffer it. 13 We are blasphemed: and we entreat. We are made as the refuse of this world, the offscouring of all, even until now. (1Cor 4, DRE)

In too readily identifying Saint Paul's words above solely with the Apostles, we forget that the Church is Apostolic—that Saint Paul's discourse applies to priests. In light of what our priests now face, we would do even better to recognize Saint Paul's description as prophetic.

"men appointed to death"
Our priests, in every moment, must die to themselves—it is their spiritual marriage to Christ, their call to holiness. Truly, like us, called to die to ourselves in our walks of life, priests often fail to die to themselves. Nonetheless, the call continues as an indelible mark upon their souls. And through them, the call is audible and visible to us.

"made a spectacle to the world and to angels and to men"

Our priests are on exhausting display—every movement, every gesture, even their choice of vestments and clericals is subject to our observation and (don't lie) critique. But we forget they are also on display before the angels. As much as they receive angelic protection, so they are subject to attack by the demons. That God allows this attack is part of the mystery of how God pours forth his grace even more to frustrate the plans of the enemy. So the world batters our priests, and so God's grace is poured upon us through our priests.

"fools for Christ's sake, but you are wise in Christ: we are weak, but you are strong: you are honourable, but we without honour. " Our priests become foolish—to us and to the world: expenses of spirit in a waste of shame, as the world and often our own ruminations can lead us to think—that we might be made wise, strong, and honorable. They spend themselves, pour out their very honor, so that we the Church, might be honored in God's sight. Such is their honor.

"hungry, thirsty, naked, buffeted, having no fixed abode"
Our priests may seem well-fed and clothed. Indeed, haven't some absconded with Church funds, and a hideous few robbed souls of their innocence? But aren't we, also, well-fed and clothed, to the measure Christ sees fit to work His Grace? Like our priests, we are, no doubt, unworthy servants. Thank our priests for reminding us that this fixed earth is not our fixed abode. Our priests are strangers and sojourners in this world, carrying before them, the Host, Which calls to us … come home, my children.

"reviled: and we bless. We are persecuted: and we suffer it. We are blasphemed: and we entreat. We are made as the refuse of this world" Our priests, as Catholic philosopher, Peter Kreeft, has noted, are sewers who drain away our sins. Pray today, and every day, for them and their labors, unseen most of the time, even to them, our priests.

Thank God for our priests. Thank God.

Singing In Auschwitz

2010-08-14T14:21:00.002-05:00

Courage, my sons, Don’t you see that we are leaving on a mission? They pay our fare in the bargain. What a piece of good luck! The thing to do now is to pray well in order to win as many souls as possible. Let us, then, tell the Blessed Virgin that we are content, and that she can do with us anything she wishes. (Saint Maximilian Maria Kolbe)

I was in Saint Peter's Square on October 10, 1982 when Pope Venerable John Paul the Great presided over the canonization of Saint Maximilian Maria Kolbe. I wasn't even Catholic.

Six months later I would be.

Father Kolbe stood in a line of prisoners at Auschwitz, from which line the Nazi commander was selecting 10 men to be slaughtered in retribution for a successful escape of prisoners the day before. Francis Gajowniczek, a Polish soldier picked by Commandant Fritsch as one of the 10, begged to be passed over because he wanted to see his wife and children again.

At that moment, Father Kolbe stepped forward and offered himself, an old priest, in place of Gajowniczek. Amazingly, the Commandant accepted the exchange, placing Father Kolbe with the others in Cell 13 of the starvation bunker, where prisoners received no food or water.

The conditions were beyond accurate description. Deprived of water, prisoners desperately consumed moisture from the slop bucket. But Father Kolbe sang hymns of love and praise to God in such a inspiring manner that the other prisoners joined him, even to the point of being oblivious to the guards who entered to remove the dead.

After more than two weeks, Father Kolbe and three others were still alive. Needing the cell for more executions, the Nazis removed Father Kolbe and the others and injected their veins with lethal carbonic acid. Father Kolbe offered his arm even as he murmured a prayer on his lips:

After the guard and the executioner left, I returned to the cell, where I found Fr.Maximilian Kolbe sitting down, leaning against the wall, with eyes opened and his head bent to the left side: it was his usual position. His face, serene and beautiful, was radiant. (from the testimony of Mr Bruno Borgowiec)

What the world did not know at the time—indeed, what the world yet refuses to acknowledge even now—is that Christ, through His beloved, Father Kolbe, defeated the Nazis even before they had invaded Father Kolbe's Poland. For Christ's love shone through Father Kolbe, who did what he could to love his fellow prisoners and even to love his captors.

I cannot love like Father Kolbe; that is for Christ to forge in me. I can also tell you that, sinner that I am, I fight Christ's love, like the world fights it. But the battle is being won, even as I starve in the Auschwitz's that the spirit of antichrist commandeers me into and the slop buckets that the world offers me as fare.

For too long I've consumed that fare. But my voice is getting stronger, breathed into by the Spirit of Christ and the Father. I think I can sing hymns now, if in an off-key way.

I do not know if I will be graced to wear a crown of martyrdom. But, you and I, we must die in some way—we must enter the darkest prisons of our own making, if only to discover a reason to sing hymns: love. For the worst things that can be done to me are nothing next to the betrayal of love that I've inflicted on my Maker, my Beloved, my One True Master.

But, as Father Kolbe shows, Christ enters the cell before me, and if I have a reason to sing, it's because He gracefully pulls the blinders from my eyes to see Him there. How can I keep from singing?

Dear Lord, Rabouni! This isn't a starvation cell! It's Your empty tomb!

No one in the world can change Truth. What we can do and should do is to seek truth and to serve it when we have found it. The real conflict is the inner conflict. Beyond armies of occupation and the hecatombs of extermination camps, there are two irreconcilable enemies in the depth of every soul: good and evil, sin and love. And what use are the victories on the battlefield if we ourselves are defeated in our innermost personal selves? (Saint Maximilian Maria Kolbe)

What Fills the Jack Hammered Hole in the Heart?

2010-08-12T11:25:00.002-05:00

nd the word of the Lord came to me, saying: 2 Son of man, you dwell in the midst of a provoking house: who have eyes to see, and see not: and ears to hear, and hear not: for they are a provoking house. 3 You, therefore, O son of man … 5 Dig you a way through the wall before their eyes: and you shall go forth through it. 6 In their sight you shall be carried out upon men's shoulders, you shall be carried out in the dark: you shall cover your face, and shall not see the ground: for I have set you for a sign of things to come (Ezek 12, DRE)

This morning as I knelt at Mass, I heard a jackhammer thudding in a nearby street, and I thought about my heart.

Have you ever hoisted a jackhammer? Heavy buggers, they are. If you even can hoist one (I barely can), when the pressure is turned on, you might as well be hugging a tornado. They have to be so darn heavy and thunderous, because they have to chip away at fortress walls of stone.

I realized this morning that the hole God asks Ezekiel to jackhammer is no mere symbol but a sacramental parable of Christ on the Cross, pounding through the fortress walls around my heart.

In Ezekiel's case, his holey city wall is an escape from my self-imposed stubborness, my hardness of heart. For Israel, and for I who sin, the only escape is exile.

Yet, the Word of the Lord promises a return. He returns to the leveled city of my heart and bores through my hearts … not that I might escape my self-imposed alienation, but that He might make a garden, a Carmel, of my barren cardiac landscape.

But my heart is hard, and I cannot from within jackhammer a whole through it. Besides, what am I going to do with a hole in my heart? If I can't make the breach, how am I supposed to stop it up?

At the end of Mass, when the jackhammer had quieted and Father John had returned the Monstrance to the altar, I knelt and saw Who fills the hole in my heart: His flesh. Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, He fills the hole and makes me whole.

Christ is exiled with us, and in so doing, ends our exile:

saw a new heaven and a new earth. For the first heaven and the first earth was gone: and the sea is now no more. 2 And I, John, saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. 3 And I heard a great voice from the throne, saying: Behold the tabernacle of God with men: and he will dwell with them. And they shall be his people: and God himself with them shall be their God. (Rev 21, DRE)

Who Asked You to Be Faithful?

2010-08-05T12:40:00.000-05:00

As far back as March 26th, 1939, Edith had addressed a petition to her Prioress on a used postcard (for motives of monastic poverty) asking permission to offer herself to Jesus in expiation, that the sway of Antichrist be broken and peace ensue.

"I am asking this, today, because it is already the twelfth hour. I know I am nothing, but Jesus wills it and He will call many more to the same sacrifice in these days."

The manuscript of her book, Science of the Cross, lay on her table; it would never be finished, because the next day [Aug. 1, 1942], the Gestapo would come to drag her away from the convent.

(from the Novena to Saint Edith Stein, Day 1)

Saint Teresa Benedicta a Cruce (Saint Edith Stein) offers herself to Jesus in expiation for the spirit of Antichrist that had swept over the age in which she lived.

But who asked her to? the skeptic might reply. Isn't this offer audacious? Isn't she being anti-Christian—by trying to be Christ in place of Christ?

I love Saint Teresa Benedicta (yes, I friended her on Facebook). No, I don't worship her (for, truly, she is not the Christ). But I do read her writings. I say a novena every year leading up to her Feast Day (August 9). I do my stumbling-best to pattern my life after hers. She is the primary reason I am entering Phase I of a Lay Carmelite vocation.

But isn't this all just a vain, exercise of subjectivity and sentiment? Because she "appeals" to me, I wrap my own interests around her like anyone would embrace a hobby, right? So why conform my life to that of this Saint? Who asked me to?

I don't "know" the answer to that like I know, say, the results of my blood test. Yet I believe Who leads me to pattern my devotion to Saint Edith's. And I know that such is reasonable to do.

After all, did I draw my blood? Did I run the test? Did I scale the results into numbers? Not me. But is it not reasonable for me to believe my GP when his office reports the results? Thus far, he's not given me a reason to question those numbers or his assessment. In such a situation, everything about my knowing is devoted to the supreme choice to believe.

I have ample reason to believe that Saint Teresa Benedicta is one of God's means for me to love Christ.

Saint Teresa had ample reason to believe where the Nazi domination of the Continent would lead her and her people. She devoted ample prayer—indeed, her very life in a Carmelite cloister—to responding to God's will amid the encroachment of darkness upon Europe. Furthermore, she put her discernment under the authority of God's chosen instruments—that of her Superior and that of the Bishops of Holland (whose well-intentioned protest against the Nazi deportation of Jews indirectly led to her martyrdom at Auschwitz):

The Catholic Bishops of Holland had issued a joint protest against the deportation of Dutch Jews by the Nazis, which they instructed was to be read out at every Mass in all churches on Sunday, July 26th [1942] … On August 2nd, Christians of Jewish origin of every religious community in the country were arrested and carried off by the Gestapo … two S.S. men turned up at the Carmel of Echt to carry off our Saint Edith and her sister, Rosa, in a police-van. (from the Novena to Saint Edith Stein, Day 2)

Honestly, I pattern my devotion along the life of Saint Edith because I don't die to myself very well. Ask my wife. Ask my kids. Ask my students and coworkers. Ask my mom. (Well, okay, you don't have to ask all of them.) My intentions (on a darn good day) might reach a level of nobility; but my execution is, well, like those dudes on the X-Games who flip a board in a middle of a full pipe.

Ouch.

What with the gloomy news from Kenya this morning and the contemporary sway of antichrist in our age, I—and you—may one day be called to a martyrdom like Saint Teresa's. But that possibility, at least for me, is shrouded in the fog of my limited perspective. Dang, I'd love to be a visionary. But I'm not.

What I can be occasionally made to see (by the tremendous efforts of Heaven and a nearly exhausted Guardian Angel) is that, today, right in front of me, Christ calls me to be a living expiation on behalf of my people—my wife, my kids, my students, my coworkers, my mom, my congressman, Obama, why even you …

It's hard to remember that Saint Edith saw things no more clearly. She was dying for her Superior, her Bishops, her sisters, her people, the Nazi's, why even me, whom she could not possibly see.

So, Who asked her? Christ asked her. From His Cross, from which He had a view that spanned the past, the present, the future, and scanned Israel, Rome, Europe, Kenya, America, why even me and you …