A friend of mine shared a letter with me that no doubt represents the concerns of many fathers. I’d like to share parts of it. His anguish is real and heartfelt but very well articulated. He’s clearly identified one of America’s many problems that are emblematic of our decline.

He wrote the letter to the president of USC.

I am a Trojan (BS Business ’86), a self-made entrepreneur, father of four children and a freedom loving American who employs 50 people in California and Arizona, who earned his way through USC on the way to earning an MBA from the Wharton School of the University of Pennsylvania. In our polarized world of real-time politics streaming from every digital means, I could not help but to read the news story (see weblink below) concerning political science Professor Sragow from my alma mater. On a busy day at the office where we are struggling to find productive investments in a slow growth economy in the least competitive State in the United States in order to provide opportunity for our teammates and positive returns for ourselves and our investors, I wish I had not read and heard what I did but I encourage you to do the same. My love of liberty, freedom of thought and expression and my heartfelt desire for my children to have the opportunity that I did to get a phenomenal education and become great citizens and independent thinkers motivates me to write to you today. What I heard from the mouth of a professor and a military veteran (for which I have great respect) was nothing short of stupefying and endemic of our no-holds-barred world of unchecked temerity, devoid of intellectual curiosity.

I recently counseled my daughter who came home with fears, tears and trepidation during her first week as a public high school freshman. It seems that her Berkeley educated freshman Honors Literature teacher found it necessary to spend the first several days in class intimidating 14 year olds into seeing the world her way (conservatives and Republicans are bad and liberals and Democrats are—interestingly using the Bible—true examples of ‘my brother’s keepers’). After her tirades the teacher asked a series of questions that required students to raise their hands resulting in a litmus test of whether the student was conservative (and had no heart) or was liberal (and had a heart). My daughter was in outright fear that her success in the class would be judged according to this teacher’s political views which had nothing to do with the study of, or appreciation for, literature. I couldn’t fathom that my public school would hire such a bully to occupy that special throne of learning and that I would have to counsel my daughter on how to outfox her intellectual heavyweight and all-powerful teacher. In all my years of schooling I never once experienced anything close to this kind of brazen ideology. My teachers and professors had too much intelligence, too much self-respect and also respect for our nation and its true freedom of expression and intellectual diversity to stoop so low.

… Professor Sragow well knows he holds 100% of the power (notwithstanding his endorsement of ‘open debate’ on the issues). He talks much of power being the weapon of choice of politicians and he certainly wields it with impunity from the lectern under the ever present threat of his grade book. What he must have missed is that this Nation was conceived under the notion of true liberty by the Founding Fathers, many of whom were reluctant leaders whose sense of duty, selflessness and calling to greatness motivated their public service rather than the lust for power which he espouses.

… I am ashamed for the College of Letters, Arts and Sciences and for the black mark this brings to USC, to my degree and to my desire to have my children educated at a USC if professors like this are chosen to educate the next generation. Is any more evidence needed to explain why our nation is so divided? We need not stifle debate nor muzzle opinionated professors nor espouse political correctness from either side of the debate, but damnit, how about re-discovering the Socratic dialectic and hiring truly great thinkers—not partisan tacticians—who in turn will educate a new generation of great thinkers versus breeding the next litter of George Orwell’s Animal Farm dog squad.

http://radio.foxnews.com/toddstarnes/top-stories/professor-calls-republicans-stupid-racist.html

Respectfully submitted, Edward

What do you think? And no, I don’t think Ed could be coerced into running for President.

And most remarkably, in God’s plan for man’s salvation, He walked among us as the Incarnate Word nevertheless He was rejected, vilified and mocked by scores.

His reward as the Redeemer was crucifixion.

I’m in my favorite leather chair, my legs and feet comfortably resting on the ottoman. My dog Lani is positioned as usual, snuggled between my legs. I’m looking out at the spectacular vista beyond my windows. I love these moments with her. They’ll be part of my memory forever.

She stirs and moves to another of her favorite locations, the couch. She looks over at me for an okay and climbs on up. Three spins, situating herself perfectly, her eyes rolling back in her head, my beautiful black Lab slowly exhales and sleeps.

The quiet allows me to think. I seem to be on two paths; survival in this world and preparing for the next. I guess one could technically prepare for Hell, but I’m aiming more North. To be with Him.

It’s amazing to me that a man who roamed the Middle East 2,000 years ago would monopolize my thoughts, but He does. Everyday. And as Easter approaches––commemorating the time of his resurrection at Golgotha––I’m reminded that the cross shadowed His birth, life and death.

*****

At one end of a sun-drenched meadow is a mountain trail. It gently arcs as it descends to my level. Slowly, a figure comes into view. We watch him. His eyes land upon each of us, we number in the hundreds, but we stand apart. As the trail ends, He meanders through the earth colors of flowers and grass taking in the beauty of His genius. Shrouded in a red robe, He’s walking pensively toward us. He is the most spectacular man I’ve ever seen. I’m transfixed.

This perfect being, Jesus Christ, the beginning and the ending, stops in front of a woman. He lays His hand on her trembling shoulder and searches her eyes. I can’t hear what He says to her but Jesus communicates with words and touch. Moments pass, He smiles softly, she stills and is overwhelmed with a sense of peace. She returns the smile and is radiant as she watches Him walk toward a forlorn man meters away.

Christ stops in front of this man who seems agitated, clearly a soul in turmoil. Jesus gently takes his hands in His and wonders why He sees defiance on this person’s face and rejection in his eyes. The man hesitates but then looks away from Jesus and toward a scraggly thorn bush at the edge of the meadow. Leering out from behind the bush, meeting the man’s gaze is a despicable creature, Lucifer himself.

Jesus says something to the man who halfheartedly twists back to Christ, but with a shake of his head, the man looks down and pulls his hands away. Jesus observes, in this case, the damning exercise of free will. This newly lost soul again turns his back to the denied Christ, the separation complete. As Jesus walks toward me, His eyes glistening, the fallen man appears colorless and transparent.

As Jesus stops in front of me, His piercing blue, sky-reflecting eyes are mesmerizing. His face is both human and divine. Authentic as creation. He’s the best of all of us yet the depth of His humanness and the breadth of His divinity are unfathomable.

He places one hand on my shoulder. I take his other hand between mine and hold it gently, joy welling up as I experience my Father’s comfort. As I start to drop to my knees in reverence, He gently grabs my elbows, pulls me up and embraces me. His voice in my ear is both prescient and soothing. My forehead on His shoulder, my heart leaps knowing that eternity with my creator is a possibility.

Jesus leaves me, He moves from person to person and the same patterns persist; there are those that surrender to His love and are accepting and those that deny Him. Those who refuse His grace of redemption and succumb to the deceit of the great Liar have a new god––he cowardly hides behind the barbs and spines of a bush.

The last person Christ encounters is His mother Mary. She’s at the far edge of the meadow watching crude profane men prepare a cross for crucifixion. Mary, knowingly, hugs her child realizing her protective arms are but a brief respite to the horrors ahead. Jesus kisses His mother’s forehead, kisses her tears and whispers in her ear. Her color is as white as a corpse. (Anne Catherine Emmerich, an Augustinian nun and mystic who lived at the turn of the nineteenth century, is renowned for her ecstatic visions. I borrow some of her imagery to complete this story.)

Jesus leaves His mother and willingly walks toward the cold men who are supremely qualified for the torture ahead. His garments are torn from His back, and the scourging begins. For fifteen minutes, the men strike repeatedly covering His body with black, blue and red marks; His blood trickles to the ground. He falls constantly but is picked up each time.

When the thugs begin to tire, more take their place. Enthusiastically. Their weapons penetrate to Jesus’ bone and tear off large pieces of flesh at every blow. One constantly strikes Christ on the face with a rod. To this point, Jesus has been scourged for forty-five minutes. He falls to the ground, barely conscious, and lies in pools of blood.

The executioners aren’t finished. They again begin to strike Jesus, coercing Him to rise and point to the cross. Without defiance, Jesus Christ raises himself with great difficulty, as His trembling limbs can barely support the weight of His body. They place a crown of thorns on His head. And mock Him.

They order Him to lie on the cross. He acquiesces. They seize His right arm, tie it down tightly with a cord and place His hand over the hole ready for a nail. One has his knee on Jesus’ chest, another is holding His hand flat. A third takes a thick long nail, presses it to Christ’s open palm and with a great iron hammer drives it through the flesh and far into the wood of the cross. They do this as well with His left hand.

Jesus’ knees are curled up in reaction to the violent way His hands have been nailed to the cross. They roughly flatten them out and tie them tightly with cords. They tie His arms and chest to the cross as well and fasten His left foot onto His right, first boring through His feet. They take a long nail and with imprecise aim, they drive it completely through to the wood below. Thirty-six blows they hammer; drunken exuberance is not precise.

Then with ropes fastened to the cross, the murderers support it as it’s raised and positioned in the hole where it seats with a mighty shock. Jesus utters a faint cry, His wounds are torn open; blood spews and His half dislocated bones grind against one another.

From my vantage point in the meadow, I see Christ hanging on the cross, a moment of anguish. His and mine. Occasionally, His blood filled eyes survey the meadow and over time, He sees us all. And in those moments, He miraculously conveys the defining truth of our existence.

He loves us. Unconditionally, eternally, indescribably.

Jesus’ suffering lasts throughout the day until I hear Him say, “It is finished”; the most paradoxical words ever spoken. Jesus Christ, the Word made flesh dies so I may live. To verify death or vilify the so-called King of the Jews, a Roman soldier pierces Jesus’ side with a spear. Blood and water flows––humanity’s rebirth and purification. Then the meadow, previously a place of wonder, begins to transform as lightning, tremors, rain and wind drive everyone away.

The thorn bush, absent its crown of thorns, crumbles to dust. Satan, the emperor of evil men, cowardly scampers away not realizing that this crucifying act, the greatest of all evil will deliver the greatest of all good. Man’s salvation.

Thank you! Words––don’t suffice. My true gratitude to the Lord on this Easter is best expressed by the life I aspire to live. In faith. In trust. Accepting of His will. Dear Lord, give me strength.

I have a new job in Northern California and I’m very excited about this next stage of life. I also can’t begin to tell you how thankful I am for all the wonderful people who have prayed for me. It’s been a tough road but a necessary one.

It will take me a bit of time to get acclimated but I will start-up my regular blogging shortly. See you soon.

May God bless all of you!

Will he have already decided on his second act as Pontiff (the first being his name)? Will he want nothing more than chapel time to pray? Will he want to huddle with confidants? Will he even have any in Rome? Or will he crave solitude?

His exterior might be serene. But inside? I remember landing aboard an aircraft carrier, very calm, in control. But I was pure adrenaline. I could have dunked a basketball with two hands. The same with our new Pope?

If I look outside the Vatican gates however, over the heads of the exuberant believers, my pondering stops. What I see is definitive. Indisputable. As in previous centuries, there are forces aligned outside the gates who want to destroy the Catholic Church. But now they seem larger, more threatening, diabolical.

In the center of a phalanx formation–the battering rams painted black–you can see secularism, relativism and atheism. Righteous in their belief that their time has come, they’re intent on killing all and taking no prisoners.

On the left flank poised behind dark red shields, spears held aloft, progressivism, laicism and modernism are nervously preparing for battle. Their mission is to forage and pillage the institutional booty that finally seems within their grasp.

On the right flank, a curious mix of ragtag soldiers–corruption, scandal, hubris, spiritual competition and sin. They surreptitiously infiltrated the Church long ago but have now regrouped in the main body for the coup de grâce. All things considered, a formidable army.

So what kind of Pope will shepherd the forces of good against this inevitable onslaught? The Pope in my mind’s eye. The man standing on the sun filled balcony–who sees what I see beyond the gates.

The new Pope:

Will exude unbounded joy and passion as a dynamic evangelist for his God and Church.

Will not be a philosopher or a theologian in the image of JPII and B16.

Will be a theologian nonetheless in that his Catholicity is well grounded by his doctoral studies.

Will be a Pope of the people due to his accessibility and good humor.

Will be resolute in his orthodoxy and sell the Truth with an endearing personality.

Won’t suffer fools readily and will storm the Vatican with a cleansing torrent.

Will be a natural pastor and optimistic warrior.

Will show great humanity.

Will be a great communicator due to his affable nature and intelligence.

Will be larger-than-life but a humble servant.

Will embrace the leadership requirements of the Papacy.

Will not speak Italian.

Will be an American.

Is what the Church needs at this point in history.

The new Pope will be Cardinal Timothy Dolan.

In my last post, I wrote about a possible job. I’m still in discussions with the CEO but it’s proving to be a very positive experience. He’s very keen on identifying folks who will fit in with the culture, who are great (not good) team players and who have exceptional skills and character. Amid a thorough process, I’ve also had to succinctly articulate lessons learned from crawling along my road to perdition.

Because of this reflective assignment, I’ve sensed an obligation to identify myself as a Christian. In today’s increasingly secular world, by taking this tact you’re never quite sure how you’re going to be received. It could be a big mistake. Was I inviting mini-martyrdom?

Let me share some of my correspondence with the CEO.

I was asked specifically about life after my crash and burn in 2009 which was financial, spiritual and physical.

I worked occasionally as a substitute teacher, worked in a coal yard and wrote a book. I learned that my mistakes over the last few years weren’t monumental and that I was also tripped by events. Like the prodigal son who goes away and foolishly spends his inheritance, he’s then hit with a famine. I went to Durango and spent my money and then the great recession erased my new job opportunities. So I had to scramble just to eat.

But more importantly, I needed to find a spiritual footing, reflect on my patterns and trends and figure out the true priorities in life. Which I did. I guess I had a mid-life crisis in the middle of a crisis. But one point needs to be emphasized. I was trapped in Wyoming and did not have the resources to go where the jobs where. As much as I wanted to be the middle of real estate, it was not in the cards. And pride prevented me from reaching out. In retrospect, that was a mistake.

One other point. Early on in my book, I decided to take a hard look at myself. I asked the following question. Can I pinpoint an event or behavior that triggered the chaos of today? No, I can’t. I’m not a drug addict. I’m not an alcoholic. I’m not a criminal. I haven’t elevated one particular vice to Godhood. I’m not morally corrupt­­­. As a blanket statement, I’m a good man.

However, could it be my spiritual emptiness has something to do with my circumstances? Is my lack of divine perspective the reason I’m so unwise, so ungrounded? My life is not properly ordered, so how can I possibly stay on course or maneuver through a minefield of bad moments. Is that my problem?

As it turned out, the lack of faith was THE problem.

I was also asked about passion.

The interesting thing about falling on your face is that a lot of people never really get back up. Or if they do, they’re bitter or angry or both. Not so with me. I’ve been through a remarkable gauntlet and I’m a better man because of it. I’m also excited about the next stage of my life both personally and professionally. The way I see things is that my life, my world, are all gifts from God and should be treasured. That’s what I feel passionate about. And a rewarding job should be integral to that life of passion.

The two responses above were part of a much longer email. So how did my candor go over? Was my image of a crucified St. Peter just a silly thought?

I had a return email within hours. It was thoughtful, positive, considerate and encouraging. I’m still in the hunt. The next step for me is to pray that my twelve references are in a good mood.

And this is most likely going to be emblematic of my life going forward. I will be absorbed by the necessity of engaging in a productive life leveraging the gifts that God has given me. But I will also have to doggedly keep my heart’s compass pointed towards Him so that I walk sure-footedly. Most of the planet has this same challenge. But how many pull it off?

I plan to. I’m committed to this duality and I sense that this new scenario is absolutely God’s will. We’ll see.

Driving home–six long hours–my thoughts ricocheted about like a ball in a squash game. It was a chance to let my brain maneuver between the multifaceted walls of what I believe to be a balanced existence–the human and the divine. Let me share a few random reflections.

*****

I’ve learned that Catholic faith is a gift from God, a pure package of divine relationship that can be eternal or momentary depending on the choices my free will makes. I’m aware that my intellect, another gift from God, is to be exercised in deepening my faith, and my level of religious knowledge, although growing, is light years removed from the scholars and thinkers who inspired me in my conversion. And here’s what I know instinctively. If my faith goes south or at least, vacations a bit too much, I should expect the road of life would be bumpier. Not so much that problems are multiplied but my handling of those problems is handicapped.

*****

The reality of my life has changed. I used to perceive my world in muddled ways. Not anymore. As a blind man, I was handed a spiritual lens hand-crafted by Jesus Christ. With confusion in retreat, lucidity is more of a constant companion.

*****

I’m free to pursue whatever I want. But an unborn child is innocent, vulnerable and dependent on his mother–completely and utterly–before he can exercise that sort of freedom. Yet in our day, the womb has become a precarious battlefield so abortion flourishes in this country like the poppy fields of Afghanistan. How is it that both mother and society are shamelessly willing to walk away from the victimized baby as if he or she were carrion on a highway? I just don’t get it. Killing is murder, murder is evil. Please understand, I’m only ascribing evil to the abortion act and not the actors but malevolence is surreptitiously setting the agenda and clouding the reality of the crime.

Only an abortion fanatic would dispute the following: ”By all the criteria of modern molecular biology, life is present from the moment of conception.” One does not abort a lump of tissue or a homogeneous biological mass. It is a human being that is thrown in the trash. One does not destroy a “potential human being but a human being with potential.” The pertinent distinction between the mother and her unwanted, unborn baby is that the mother has had time to grow and develop. The butchered infant amid the garbage was denied this time.

*****

This whole notion of surrendering to God is fascinating. When I let go of everything, I realize that I haven’t given up anything because nothing is mine. Everything about my life is a gift from God. For me to think I control or own any of it is silly. I wish more people understood this.

*****

I pray that I’m a great success in my next endeavor. I so desperately want to give back, to share the fruits of God’s abundance. Lord, hear my prayer.

In all my days as a calculating business executive in the world of finance, I never saw a ghost. I wish I had. My mother said she did but I never believed her. If I could have shared her experience, if they indeed float among us, my analytical, suffer-no-fools mentality could have prevailed upon the skeptical.

In my relatively short life as a Catholic in love with Christ and the Church, I’ve never experienced a mystical event. I wish I had and I pray that I do. Those moments must be a strange combination of faith-affirmation and confusion. I crave such a moment because I have such a difficult time reading and believing the accounts of others who have been so blessed–and I would love to share such a revelation with the world. UFOs and ghosts are one thing. But God?

It’s not like I was born in Missouri but still …

My crucifix is a prized possession. I always wear it­­—to go through a day without it seems inconceivable. So when I heard about The Miraculous Crucifix of Limpias, I decided to do some research.

What a mind-blowing journey–I’d like to share some of the discovery. I first have to thank Glenn Dallaire and his website Miracles of the Church for the following information which I have liberally copied. There’s more documentation on his site and other exciting observations as well.

The Miraculous Crucifix of Limpias is located in the 16th century Church of St. Peter in Santander, Spain, not far from the popular alleged apparitions of the Blessed Mother in Garabandal, Spain. The Crucifix is a beautiful 6 foot life-size figure of the crucified Jesus, and is located directly above the main altar. The miraculous crucifix is believed to have been the work of Pedro de Mena, who died in 1693, and the crucifix was given to the church by Father Diego de la Piedra Secadura, who had been born at Limpias in 1716.

The crucifix is a meditation on the sufferings of Our Lord portraying Him in the final moments of His agony. Measuring six feet tall, the corpus is clothed with a loin cloth that is held in place with a rope. The feet are one atop the other and are pierced with a single nail. The index and middle fingers of both pierced hands are extended as though giving a final blessing. The face of Our Lord is of particular beauty, with its glass eyes looking toward Heaven so that, for the most part, only the whites of the eyes are visible.

The years 1914 and 1919 are the two years in which the miracles are documented. The first in 1914 concerned a monk who went to the Church of St. Peter to fix the light over the altar.

“After I had worked for two hours, in order to rest myself a little I began to clean the figure so that it could be seen more clearly. My head was on a level with the Head of the Christ, and at a distance of only a couple of feet from it. It was a lovely day and through the window in the sanctuary a flood of light streamed into the church and lit up the whole altar. As I was gazing at the crucifix with the closest attention, I noticed with astonishment that Our Lord’s eyes were gradually closing, and for five minutes I saw them quite closed.”

Overwhelmed, he fell from the ladder. Shaken, the monk still managed to make it outside and was able to relay his story to the sacristan who was about to ring the Angelus. His response?

“He said he was not surprised as he had already heard that the Santo Cristo had closed His eyes on one other occasion, and that it was probably brought about by the working of some interior mechanism.”

The monk, “thinking that the movement I had observed in the eyes of the figure was to be attributed in any case to a mechanism,” attached no further importance to his vision. Yet, the final words attributed to this event by the monk are quite interesting.

“Since then I have often cleaned the crucifix, and at the same time examined it minutely, and am convinced that there is neither a spring nor any other mechanism on it. What is more, the eyes were so firmly fixed that even by pressing hard with one’s fingers they could not be made to move in the least, nor could they be turned in any direction, as I have proved myself again and again.”

In 1919 however, Jesus came alive. The village of Limpias at the time was not a hot-bed of faith. Quite the contrary. So, the pastor of the church recruited two Capuchins, noted for their apostolic zeal and missionary success, to inject much-needed devotion into the faithful.

Once again, something mysterious happened.

On the last day of the mission, Sunday, March 30, while the Archpriest was celebrating Holy Mass, both missionaries were occupied in the confessional. Fr. Agatangelo (one of the missionaries), however, delivered the day’s sermon based on the words, “My son, give me thy heart.” (Prov. 23:26). While he was speaking, a girl of about 12 entered the confessional of Fr. Jalon (the other missionary) and told him that the eyes of Christ on the cross were closed. Thinking that this was the product of the child’s imagination, the priest ignored her claim until other children also came to him with the same message.

After Fr. Agatangelo finished the address and was about to return to his confessional, Fr. Jalon approached him and told him of the children’s claim. Both priests then looked at the crucifix but saw nothing unusual. Presently a man in the congregation shouted for everyone to look upon the crucifix. In a few moments the people confirmed with great excitement what the children had seen. Some of the people began crying, others shouted that they had seen a miracle, others fell to their knees in prayer while others called out to God for mercy.

This was not the end of the spiritual excitement. 1919 was a very good year for multiple and breath-taking apparitions.

Because of the newspaper reports, pilgrimages from near and distant towns began to arrive in Limpias, for the newspaper reports detailing accounts of the wonderful crucifix spread the news to all parts of Spain and finally to other countries including the United States. One journalist who watched in amazement at the movement of the eyes and mouth of our Lord stated:

“I could perceive two movements of the jawbone, as if He were saying two syllables with His lips. I shut my eyes quite tight and asked myself: “What will He have said?” The answer was not long in coming, for in my innermost self I clearly heard the significant and blessed words, “Love Me!”

By 1921, the village was a very busy place.

The number of pilgrims had increased to such an extent that foreign traffic in Limpias was determined to be greater than the visitors to Lourdes. Additionally, numerous Princes, Barons, politicians and other notables also visited Limpias, as did dignitaries of the Church in Spain including bishops and cardinals. Archbishops also arrived from Mexico, Peru, Manila, Cuba, and other foreign nations.

The multiple albums that are found in the sacristy of the church of Limpias contain well over 8,000 testimonies of people who had seen the wonderful apparitions. Of these, 2,500 were sworn on oath. Among these witnesses were members of religious orders, priests, doctors, lawyers, professors, and governors of universities, officers, merchants, workmen, countryfolk, unbelievers and even atheists.

I thought I’d end with one of the most moving observations.

A report made by Dr. Penamaria was published in the paper La Montana dated May, 1920. The doctor described what seemed to him to be “…a re-enactment of Christ’s death on the Cross.” He writes that after witnessing the movement of the statue’s eyes and mouth, and after changing locations in the church to verify the miracle, he prayed for a more distinctive proof, something more extraordinary “… that would leave no scope to further doubt, and would give me positive grounds for His miracle, so that I might also proclaim it to all and sundry, and defend it against every opponent, even at the risk of losing my life.”

He then writes: “This request seemed pleasing to Our Lord … A moment later His mouth was twisted sharply to the left, His glassy, pain-filled eyes gazed up to heaven with the sad expression of those eyes that look and yet do not see. His leadcolored lips appeared to tremble; the muscles of the neck and breast were contracted and made breathing forced and laboured. His truly Hippocratic features showed the keenest pangs of death. His arms seemed to be trying to get loose from the cross with convulsive backward and forward movements, and showed clearly the piercing agony that the nails caused in His hands at each movement.

Then followed the indrawing of a breath, then a second … a third … I do not know how many… always with painful oppression; then a frightful spasm, as with someone who is suffocating and struggling for air, at which the mouth and nose were opened wide. Now follows an outpouring of blood, fluid, frothing, that runs over the under-lip, and which the Saviour sucks up with His bluish, quivering tongue, that He slowly and gently passes two or three times in succession over the lower lip; then an instant of slight repose, another slow breath … now the nose becomes pointed, the lips are drawn together rhythmically, and then extend, the bluish cheek-bones project, the chest expands and contracts violently after which His head sinks limply on His breast, so that the back of the head can be seen distinctly. Then … He expires! . . . I have tried to describe in outline what I saw during more than two hours…”

Wow.

So, for those of us who have been left out in the cold in regards to these revelatory moments, what are we to think of this extraordinary Crucifix? Is it true? Nothing has happened in almost one hundred years. Why then? Why not now?

And if we were to experience such an episode, how would we react? For private reflection only? Or would we hire the best public relations firm in the world so that we could tell our story. To cast nets among the sea of men.

I’d pray for counsel to the very Jesus who inspired the artistry of that Crucufix and who sacrificed His life. For all of us.