A storm is actually coming. No, my elbow isn't acting up.
Then how do I know?
They say you can smell ozone before a storm.
Burning ozone from thousands of lightning strikes in the sky.
I can smell the ozone burning.
It whispers of immanence; a violence that curls my nostrils in terrified pleasure.
I can see the dark clouds swirling. I smile at their magnificent ferocity.
They are so quiet from here: my perch in the path of the storm.
I can feel the temperature drop. Small bumps on my skin fill the air where heat used to be.
The air is wet with the sobering cold sheets of rain. Waiting, waiting for me.
I can hear the rumble. It's in the clouds and in my stomach.
We hunger; me and the vaporous cinnamon swirls. They crave to devour and I to be devoured.
I can taste the electricity. It vibrates the air around me
with the intensity of a new father waiting for the screams of his first child to echo from the other room.
The moment is pregnant with the untold tale that will be told in due time. A brief story about my
death. And
birth.
A new birth from a violent death. A flash of lightning told in slow prose.
So slow it takes a year to tell the tale. A labor of months always hinting at a promise.
But never tells. A secret promise:
Petrichor.
A promise of new life so abundant that its obnoxious odor infects everything.
I will smell petrichor.
My nostrils will curl with delight.
I will see petrichor.
I will gaze on swirling mists around my ankles.
I will feel petrichor.
The warm humidity will refresh my rain-battered skin.
I will hear petrichor.
The hymns of satiation from the living all around me.
I will taste petrichor.
An airborne tonic inhaled by the tongue.
People call petrichor an ending; a climax; an aftermath.
I will know otherwise:
Petrichor is not a resolution, but a commencement.
Friday, August 8, 2014
winterize my life
When I was young we had a pool. In the late autumn, after all the leaves had changed from glorious paint strokes to interactive carpet fibers, we had to winterize the pool. The pool had to be drained below the filter. The lines had to be flushed out. The surface of the pool was skimmed and the bottom of the pool was vacuumed. Finally, we put special chemicals in the water to protect from algae and covered the pool with enormous, unruly plastic blanket. It was long, arduous work that took several days, which is like an eternity of freedom lost for a 10-year-old.
I remember that my dad had a checklist, and we had to do every single item on the list. Most of it involved running around to fetch him tools or pulling the hose over. Unfolding the pool cover always involved a lot of yelling and flipping and swearing. The whole time, a sense of urgency and the necessity of accuracy was hanging in the air like an oppressive odor. If we did something wrong, the pool would break. And if our error didn't break the pool, it would always surprise us with some job in the spring that was long and horrible and even worse than the task of winterizing.
Like the one year that we didn't clean up all the BBs from the bottom of the pool before putting the cover on. When we pulled the cover off in the spring, the bottom was covered in little rust spots. We had to dive down for 10 seconds at a time (in the cold spring water) with toothbrushes and slowly scrape the rust off the liner. It was horrible.
In a couple days, I will do something really crazy and radical. I'm going to extract myself from everything that is familiar, and will plant myself in a world where even the rules are foreign to me.
And this is actually very hard to do.
The world has gotten used to having me as a link in a chain, and there will be times in the coming year where that chain will pull, expecting me to be there. So I have had to start anticipating all the times that the chain will pull, in order to let the links around me know to link up in my absence.
I need to unsubscribe from all the different sites that send me email. I have to let people know. I have to figure out my insurance and loans. I have to find out ways to contact people ahead of time. I have to turn off my cell phone. And I have to put away my books, fold up my clothes, and pack a very small bag to sustain me for the year. The process has involved a lot of running around and mostly a lot of yelling about things not being set up properly.
And if I do these things incorrectly there will be consequences. It could harm my experience next year by drawing me out of it. Or if I make it through without breaking, there could be things that need attention when I return that could have been avoided if I had just finished the job now.
It occurred to me last week that, in a very real way, I am attempting to winterize my life.
I remember that my dad had a checklist, and we had to do every single item on the list. Most of it involved running around to fetch him tools or pulling the hose over. Unfolding the pool cover always involved a lot of yelling and flipping and swearing. The whole time, a sense of urgency and the necessity of accuracy was hanging in the air like an oppressive odor. If we did something wrong, the pool would break. And if our error didn't break the pool, it would always surprise us with some job in the spring that was long and horrible and even worse than the task of winterizing.
Like the one year that we didn't clean up all the BBs from the bottom of the pool before putting the cover on. When we pulled the cover off in the spring, the bottom was covered in little rust spots. We had to dive down for 10 seconds at a time (in the cold spring water) with toothbrushes and slowly scrape the rust off the liner. It was horrible.
In a couple days, I will do something really crazy and radical. I'm going to extract myself from everything that is familiar, and will plant myself in a world where even the rules are foreign to me.
And this is actually very hard to do.
The world has gotten used to having me as a link in a chain, and there will be times in the coming year where that chain will pull, expecting me to be there. So I have had to start anticipating all the times that the chain will pull, in order to let the links around me know to link up in my absence.
I need to unsubscribe from all the different sites that send me email. I have to let people know. I have to figure out my insurance and loans. I have to find out ways to contact people ahead of time. I have to turn off my cell phone. And I have to put away my books, fold up my clothes, and pack a very small bag to sustain me for the year. The process has involved a lot of running around and mostly a lot of yelling about things not being set up properly.
And if I do these things incorrectly there will be consequences. It could harm my experience next year by drawing me out of it. Or if I make it through without breaking, there could be things that need attention when I return that could have been avoided if I had just finished the job now.
It occurred to me last week that, in a very real way, I am attempting to winterize my life.
Monday, August 4, 2014
24 hour Champagne diet
What would you give a young man about to embrace a life of poverty so extreme that he's closed his bank account and forsaken all forms of monetary wealth?
A prayer card? A rosary? Some stationary? Maybe deodorant? Certainly something useful that he'll have more than 6 days to use. Like pretty much anything else besides money.
Well, several people disagree with you, and saw fit to generously bestow their wealth upon my wallet. A week before I enter the monastic setting of the novitiate and I am living with an unprecedented amount of highly disposable income. I didn't even know that money came in increments of $50! But apparently it does, and we even saw fit to put one of our nation's worst presidents on the bill.
So tonight, for one night only, I decided that I would be rich. I picked up my friend Alex, and we went downtown for a fancy dinner and an evening on the town.
We walked into the first restaurant and moments later walked out. Greenville, I know I said fancy, but that was too fancy. We settled on a nice place on a terrace over Falls Park, drank luxurious cocktails, and had meals with French names that I couldn't pronounce.
Thankfully, the riches couldn't invade our conversation, and we enjoyed one anothers' company like old times. The conversation danced from future plans to mind palaces to poly-amorous relationships. Our dialogue yielded delicious new phrases like "the Justin Bieber Revolt of 2014" and insightful anecdotes like "college was the shortest eternity that I have ever lived through."
But the best part of my day with Money to Burn wasn't the out-of-the-ordinary situation of sitting on a terrace nursing a well-made drink, but was instead the end of the night when we sat on a rocky ledge above the falls and joked about embarrassing stories and mused on future ones.
I'm just not cut out for the Rich Lyfe.
the Pretensions of a Poet
I open my eyes to the warm touch of the suns rays, crepuscular through the blinds of my room.
"OHMYGAWD SHUT UP" I think softly; my humble greeting to the celestial lord.
Turning over to face the dead white wall, I remark to the inside of my head that the sun is like an annoying younger sibling who just can't wait any longer and needs you to get out of bed so the playday can begin. A long grumble and an angry throwing back of the sheets is my consent.
The sun: nefarious foil to the sacrosanct Progress of sleep.
What happens next I most certainly brought upon myself.
A shower would do me some good, I thought. So I grabbed the towel and dragged it through the hall.
A Wild Sister appears.
And she's ornery. Standing in the bathroom next to the mirror drawing on her face with a pencil. So I got my face as close to hers as possible and generously shared my halitosis with her and the now fogging mirror.
But she's the smart one, so I was in for real trouble. Without skipping a beat she began retelling a story from a few months ago that we had decided was better left between the two of us. It involved a car and some lights and a responsible interaction with a man of the law. She began at a very hushed pace, slowly embracing a crescendo that would soon bring the story to the ears of those who would be better off ignorant.
I had one discourse, and I seized it. I began playing some smooth jazz on the Stomach Drum, and yelled a haunting hymn like Yoko Ono at an art show.
Oh, the eye roll was glorious.
The story ceased and the pencil went back in the bag. She stormed to the door (me still playing my Ono tribute), turned around, and shouted "that's not how adults handle their problems!"
I ran to the door and yelled down the stairs, "HOW WOULD YOU KNOW?!" and slammed the door.
Family is the seedbed of all life.
"Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world."
"Prayer is the inner bath of love into which the soul purges itself."
Percy Blysshe Shelley and John Marie Vianney. Two men I admire greatly. One was a Poet, and the other was a Poet. One lived a Romantic life, while the other lived a Romantic life. However, one understood things as they are, and the other struggled against them. Though both lived and breathed Poetry, only one of them understood what it actually was.
Today we remember them both. One of them was born today, and the other died today. To be honest, I'd rather be the kind of person that is remembered on the day of his death rather than the day of his birth.
"Poetry is a mirror that makes beautiful that which was distorted."
"Prayer is to our soul what rain is to the soil. Fertilize the soil ever so richly, it will remain barren unless fed by frequent rains."
"OHMYGAWD SHUT UP" I think softly; my humble greeting to the celestial lord.
Turning over to face the dead white wall, I remark to the inside of my head that the sun is like an annoying younger sibling who just can't wait any longer and needs you to get out of bed so the playday can begin. A long grumble and an angry throwing back of the sheets is my consent.
The sun: nefarious foil to the sacrosanct Progress of sleep.
What happens next I most certainly brought upon myself.
A shower would do me some good, I thought. So I grabbed the towel and dragged it through the hall.
A Wild Sister appears.
And she's ornery. Standing in the bathroom next to the mirror drawing on her face with a pencil. So I got my face as close to hers as possible and generously shared my halitosis with her and the now fogging mirror.
But she's the smart one, so I was in for real trouble. Without skipping a beat she began retelling a story from a few months ago that we had decided was better left between the two of us. It involved a car and some lights and a responsible interaction with a man of the law. She began at a very hushed pace, slowly embracing a crescendo that would soon bring the story to the ears of those who would be better off ignorant.
I had one discourse, and I seized it. I began playing some smooth jazz on the Stomach Drum, and yelled a haunting hymn like Yoko Ono at an art show.
Oh, the eye roll was glorious.
The story ceased and the pencil went back in the bag. She stormed to the door (me still playing my Ono tribute), turned around, and shouted "that's not how adults handle their problems!"
I ran to the door and yelled down the stairs, "HOW WOULD YOU KNOW?!" and slammed the door.
Family is the seedbed of all life.
"Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world."
"Prayer is the inner bath of love into which the soul purges itself."
Percy Blysshe Shelley and John Marie Vianney. Two men I admire greatly. One was a Poet, and the other was a Poet. One lived a Romantic life, while the other lived a Romantic life. However, one understood things as they are, and the other struggled against them. Though both lived and breathed Poetry, only one of them understood what it actually was.
Today we remember them both. One of them was born today, and the other died today. To be honest, I'd rather be the kind of person that is remembered on the day of his death rather than the day of his birth.
"Poetry is a mirror that makes beautiful that which was distorted."
"Prayer is to our soul what rain is to the soil. Fertilize the soil ever so richly, it will remain barren unless fed by frequent rains."
Sunday, August 3, 2014
Snapshots
Two passengers jostled left and right as leaves whipped their fingers. The Gator bumped up and down through the trees. The path twisted towards the sound of rushing water. Soon, the trail touched the river, and the Gator slowed down so the passengers could enjoy the sights and sounds of the rapids. A great deal of water rushed around rocks only to crash into other rocks with terrifying force.
Years before, some fine individual realized the aesthetic beauty of the spot and placed a small wooden chair next to the flowing water. The shoots from the bushes and weeds had twisted up around the legs, making the chair look as if it grew from the earth.
Satisfied, the vehicle turned and plunged into the trees. The skilled driver navigated a well-known course that had little room for error; one wrong move could throw us from the narrow path into the dense brush.
We reached the crest of a hill and shot out of the trees into an open clearing. The Gator slid to an abrupt stop. The faces of some 30 deer looked out at us from all across the field. Neither they nor we could move. We all just froze in stunned silence at the unexpected company. They looked at us with enormous round eyes while their wet noses pulsated in the effort to understand us. Every ear was turned in our direction.
One white tail went up, and then the rest followed. A stampede! 30 deer scrambling at once, crashing around one another as each hastily picked their own line into the trees.
Within moments they were all gone, and we sat alone in the field. It was a sunflower field. The sun was going down beyond the distant hill, painting different parts of the lazy clouds in different lazy shades of pink and purple. The sky burned orange behind it, the color of a ripe grapefruit. The sunflowers had already begun turning their heads downward for the evening, seeming to hum a song of sorrow at the departure of their namesake. Crickets already claimed the stage and sang a chorus from the trees. The air was positively electric.
The Gator sprang to life again, and this time the gas pedal was pressed to the floor. The vehicle raced around the perimeter of the clearing and the top speed was reached. We could barely keep our eyes open because the wind was so tremendously violent. I couldn't smile (despite my impulse to grin and even scream out in approval) because the groups of tiny flies and mosquitoes collided with our faces at an alarming rate.
The freedom of the moment was unreal. We decided to head home, darting back into the forest having changed a little. For some reason we were suddenly more ourselves than when we began our joyride.
Why it is that we thought to recreate this trip several hours later will never make sense to me. Such is the nature of alcohol.
For some reason, three of us found ourselves running through the dense blackness to our off-road craft. We buckled in, turned on the headlights, and pulled into the trees once more.
On our way to the clearing, we stopped by the rapids and got out for a moment. Inebriated playfulness took command, and I darted off into the blackness. I crashed through the brush, and stopped behind a large trunk. I listened for my companions.
Victoria discovered my absence first. Then they began calling out for me. I put my hand to my mouth to keep the laughter from becoming too audible. My intention was to wait for their search to pass my tree so I could jump out and scare them.
But they didn't come. They wandered around the Gator with their cellphone flashlights wildly dashing about them. Suddenly, the Gator started and they sped off into the forest. I watched as the headlights disappeared into the trees. I was swallowed in total blackness.
Shit.
Why did they leave? Surely they'll come back! Right? RIGHT?! My mind tried to race for answers, but everything was working slower with the buzz of Belgian Beer about my mind.
After a few minutes, it occurred to me that I didn't even know where the path was. But, remembering that the path meets the river, I decided to walk in the direction of the roaring water. It was slow progress with my hands out to protect me from smashing my face into a tree, but eventually I arrived at the water. Through the darkness out could barely make out the white, frothy foam of the rapids beneath me.
In this moment, I had two separate and vivid thoughts: #1 am I going to die here? and #2 yes, the wolves will get me. I don't even know if wolves prowl that stretch of South Carolina wilderness. It didn't really matter; at that moment I was suddenly sure that they did and that they would be here immanently.
At that moment, I heard the sounds of the Gator. Off in the distance, I could barely make out the headlights through the trees. They were on some other path looking for me. I yelled in their direction, despite my certainty that doing so would definitely attract the wolves, but the rapids ate my words instead of letting them roam free amongst the leaves and bark and South Carolina red clay.
I began pacing back and forth to weigh my options. I didn't have my cell phone so I couldn't call for help. I couldn't walk back because I couldn't find the path without light. All I could do was wait to be found, or wait for the morning to find my way back. At that moment, I stumbled into the chair I saw earlier. Relieved, I remembered that the chair was on the path, so if anyone came by they would definitely see me. I plopped down into the soft and wet wooden throne, and laid my head against the back of the chair.
At this moment I saw the stars for the first time. Thousands of them peaking through every little hole in the canopy of the forest. And each one told me to be quiet and rest. This moment, a just climax to my own colossal stupidity, was a gift. The forest whispered in my ear and told me it loved me, and it wanted me to sit there and bask in its beauty.
So I sat in the chair and listened to the water beat at the rocks for 25 minutes. I decided that if they didn't find me I'd simply sleep in this wooden throne. And I almost dozed off, before the Gator twisted around a curve and happened upon me.
I sighed, got up from my chair, thanked the forest for the intimate time we shared, and climbed into the Gator. "No more shenanigans tonight," I said to myself quietly as we pulled away into the trees and back toward the house.
Friday, August 1, 2014
the East Wind is coming
Sherlock Holmes identifies himself as a High Functioning Sociopath.
Preston McAfee, a brilliant mathematician and economist, took the liberty of profiling a HFS for me:
-a HFS exhudes superficial charm.
-a HFS has a grandiose sense of self.
-a HFS lies pathologically.
-a HFS feigns emotion to meet the need of the present circumstance.
-a HFS has an incapacity for love.
-a HFS is impulsive and has a deep need for stimulation.
-a HFS is unreliable.
-a HFS readily changes their life story as is needed.
Challenge: prove why it is that you identify yourself closely with Sherlock Holmes.
Challenge accepted, my good friend.
This list is daunting. Imagine yourself identifying with it, for a moment.
(I imagine you can't)
Don't worry, it's completely normal if you fail to identify with this profile. Personally, I have never paused to consider myself completely normal. Never (I believe not even once) have I thought to project my own experience on the general public, assuming that my experience is "universal" in any way.
However, I have done my best to identify what is normal. In conversation, I have attempted to make my own thoughts appear similar to others, in an attempt to have ease of communication.
Don't think for a second that I've assumed my thoughts actually parallel to the "normal human experience".
Which is partially why, for some reason, this list hits uncomfortably close to home.
Uncomfortably.
Sherlock Holmes is a HFS. But here's the problem: according to Preston McAfee, he doesn't fit. How so? Don't trouble yourself; I've already pointed it out to you. Sherlock obviously has a capacity for love.
Back up. The proper place to start? "Josh, how would you define Sherlock?"
Now we're asking the right questions.
Sherlock is a HFS that is a bit more human than he anticipated. He matches the profile of a HFS in all ways but the important one: Sherlock can love.
This should be a shock to no one. WEREN'T YOU PAYING ATTENTION?! Sherlock obviously loves. His life is not a coolly calculated game. It is a confusing game of love. A game so complex that only rarely is he forced to reveal his entire hand. And that shocking, revealing card? Always an admission of love.
Sherlock loves. It's painfully obvious, isn't it? Sherlock loves. Mycroft belittles him for it. Moriarty realizes that the only way to beat Sherlock is to threaten the people he loves. Of all the possible things that Magnussen locks onto as a pressure point, it's the people that Sherlock loves that causes any real concern for the consulting detective.
Sherlock's weakness is people. Consistently. Predictably. But not just people; it's the people he loves.
So my definition of Sherlock? A HFS that has the capacity for love, and whose intellect is properly utilized via a Memory Palace.
Ah, the memory palace. Thus far, inaccessible to me. Originally attributed to a Roman Poet (of course), it is known as the Method of Loci. In other words, you store memories in specific mental locations so they are more readily accessible.
(Sounds an awful lot like the Interior Castle, don't you think?)
Not for lack of trying, the "mind palace" has thus far proved inaccessible. I have tried and tried (for literally more than a decade) and have been incapable of producing such a rich mental field of memory.
No bother. It will come.
But imagine, for a second, a HFS without a mind palace. Thoughts occur rapidly: constant reactions to constant stimuli. Without a mind palace to store them, imagine how a high functioning sociopath would react.
A situation begins. Thoughts immediately and continually occur in the mind. They swim around anxiously, but without a proper place to go (like, perhaps into a mind palace), they simply fester in density and chaos.
Suddenly, a question is asked. The situation calls for a response. Without a mind palace to quickly and concisely search for the most proper (read: most genuine) response, the swirling cloud spits back the things that most resemble the prompt.
This is, in the clearest manner, how I would describe my brain in a social situation. Swirling thoughts cloud the present consciousness, and rather than choosing a calculated response, most often a response is returned that simply resembles the tone, the identified hoped-for response, and/or the original purpose of the question asked.
It is not an exchange of character, but rather a reactionary response of likeness.
And it tends to work (superficial charm).
But Sherlock loves, and there's my hope. This whole meaningless system of knowledge has an axis: the love he experiences towards those closest to him. Thus, his HFSness is, first and foremost, human. Human in a basic and beautiful way. He doesn't lack love; instead, love is the very thing that he rotates around. Love is his weakness (read: his strength).
It is for me as well. Now, I lack a mind palace. The method of loci is lost on me. However, love is still the most obvious and identifiable catalyst I can identify for most of my actions. So much so that the whole concept of love terrifies me.
I am afraid to use love in normal conversation, because it seems much too big to simply parallel a prompt. In fact, the ONLY place that I will (reasonably) apply the word "love" is in my prayers. In those times when I know that the word simply cannot be too big, I'll use it to express genuine feeling. It is the card closely guarded, just as it is with Sherlock.
So, even though the Method of Loci has been fruitless in my own life, the Method of Foci has been largely successful.
And the Foci is, undeniably, love.
So yes, profile the high functioning sociopath. It will bear a striking, shocking, and downright unsettling resemblance to my inner life.
But, like Sherlock, I am set apart by love. And so are many great saints. Living saints. The kind that are currently moving this world a little closer to its telos. The kind of people that will bring about the Kingdom Proclaimed.
"Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a changing age. There's an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew on England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But it's God's own wind none the less, and a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared."
-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, His Last Bow (the last appearance [chornologically] of Sherlock Holmes), set in September 1914.
Preston McAfee, a brilliant mathematician and economist, took the liberty of profiling a HFS for me:
-a HFS exhudes superficial charm.
-a HFS has a grandiose sense of self.
-a HFS lies pathologically.
-a HFS feigns emotion to meet the need of the present circumstance.
-a HFS has an incapacity for love.
-a HFS is impulsive and has a deep need for stimulation.
-a HFS is unreliable.
-a HFS readily changes their life story as is needed.
Challenge: prove why it is that you identify yourself closely with Sherlock Holmes.
Challenge accepted, my good friend.
This list is daunting. Imagine yourself identifying with it, for a moment.
(I imagine you can't)
Don't worry, it's completely normal if you fail to identify with this profile. Personally, I have never paused to consider myself completely normal. Never (I believe not even once) have I thought to project my own experience on the general public, assuming that my experience is "universal" in any way.
However, I have done my best to identify what is normal. In conversation, I have attempted to make my own thoughts appear similar to others, in an attempt to have ease of communication.
Don't think for a second that I've assumed my thoughts actually parallel to the "normal human experience".
Which is partially why, for some reason, this list hits uncomfortably close to home.
Uncomfortably.
Sherlock Holmes is a HFS. But here's the problem: according to Preston McAfee, he doesn't fit. How so? Don't trouble yourself; I've already pointed it out to you. Sherlock obviously has a capacity for love.
Back up. The proper place to start? "Josh, how would you define Sherlock?"
Now we're asking the right questions.
Sherlock is a HFS that is a bit more human than he anticipated. He matches the profile of a HFS in all ways but the important one: Sherlock can love.
This should be a shock to no one. WEREN'T YOU PAYING ATTENTION?! Sherlock obviously loves. His life is not a coolly calculated game. It is a confusing game of love. A game so complex that only rarely is he forced to reveal his entire hand. And that shocking, revealing card? Always an admission of love.
Sherlock loves. It's painfully obvious, isn't it? Sherlock loves. Mycroft belittles him for it. Moriarty realizes that the only way to beat Sherlock is to threaten the people he loves. Of all the possible things that Magnussen locks onto as a pressure point, it's the people that Sherlock loves that causes any real concern for the consulting detective.
Sherlock's weakness is people. Consistently. Predictably. But not just people; it's the people he loves.
So my definition of Sherlock? A HFS that has the capacity for love, and whose intellect is properly utilized via a Memory Palace.
Ah, the memory palace. Thus far, inaccessible to me. Originally attributed to a Roman Poet (of course), it is known as the Method of Loci. In other words, you store memories in specific mental locations so they are more readily accessible.
(Sounds an awful lot like the Interior Castle, don't you think?)
Not for lack of trying, the "mind palace" has thus far proved inaccessible. I have tried and tried (for literally more than a decade) and have been incapable of producing such a rich mental field of memory.
No bother. It will come.
But imagine, for a second, a HFS without a mind palace. Thoughts occur rapidly: constant reactions to constant stimuli. Without a mind palace to store them, imagine how a high functioning sociopath would react.
A situation begins. Thoughts immediately and continually occur in the mind. They swim around anxiously, but without a proper place to go (like, perhaps into a mind palace), they simply fester in density and chaos.
Suddenly, a question is asked. The situation calls for a response. Without a mind palace to quickly and concisely search for the most proper (read: most genuine) response, the swirling cloud spits back the things that most resemble the prompt.
This is, in the clearest manner, how I would describe my brain in a social situation. Swirling thoughts cloud the present consciousness, and rather than choosing a calculated response, most often a response is returned that simply resembles the tone, the identified hoped-for response, and/or the original purpose of the question asked.
It is not an exchange of character, but rather a reactionary response of likeness.
And it tends to work (superficial charm).
But Sherlock loves, and there's my hope. This whole meaningless system of knowledge has an axis: the love he experiences towards those closest to him. Thus, his HFSness is, first and foremost, human. Human in a basic and beautiful way. He doesn't lack love; instead, love is the very thing that he rotates around. Love is his weakness (read: his strength).
It is for me as well. Now, I lack a mind palace. The method of loci is lost on me. However, love is still the most obvious and identifiable catalyst I can identify for most of my actions. So much so that the whole concept of love terrifies me.
I am afraid to use love in normal conversation, because it seems much too big to simply parallel a prompt. In fact, the ONLY place that I will (reasonably) apply the word "love" is in my prayers. In those times when I know that the word simply cannot be too big, I'll use it to express genuine feeling. It is the card closely guarded, just as it is with Sherlock.
So, even though the Method of Loci has been fruitless in my own life, the Method of Foci has been largely successful.
And the Foci is, undeniably, love.
So yes, profile the high functioning sociopath. It will bear a striking, shocking, and downright unsettling resemblance to my inner life.
But, like Sherlock, I am set apart by love. And so are many great saints. Living saints. The kind that are currently moving this world a little closer to its telos. The kind of people that will bring about the Kingdom Proclaimed.
"Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a changing age. There's an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew on England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But it's God's own wind none the less, and a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared."
-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, His Last Bow (the last appearance [chornologically] of Sherlock Holmes), set in September 1914.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
a letter to a prince
My Dear Child,
Let me tell you how to rule:
Small moments where beauty collects that could have been missed but aren't:
these are gifts, young man.
Cherish them while you have them and dwell on them a little while after they're gone.
Then put them away with all the others.
You may pause for a moment to marvel,
to behold the great sight of all these moments together,
but move on.
Don't hold them in your hand after they spoil.
Set them down and step on top of them, for they are your throne;
they cannot lift you higher if they're still in your hand.
If you clutch them to your breast,
you will never see any more than those few you can hold.
Wandering around with your hands full like an fool;
like a sinner.
Just let them go
and be free.
Look to the sky, my beloved, and see.
See the way it all works;
things as they are.
In the top floor of the tallest building,
there sits the richest man in the world.
He looks across the land,
and thinks that it is his.
He sneers a challenge at the sky,
and waits for his answer.
Waits until death.
But look higher,
and see the brave who fly amongst the clouds.
They, though higher than the rich man,
understand the power of the Heavens,
and respect the wind, the clouds, the lightning, and the rain.
Though these brave souls soar above all lands and men,
they do not venture to possess them.
For they know that a single breeze,
a single strike from a cloud,
or even the mere presence of ice,
could send them careening from their throne.
Some day, my son, you will inherit my kingdom.
And when that day comes, I implore you:
heed the wisdom of the men of flight.
And you will be fit to rule.
-your loving Father
Let me tell you how to rule:
Small moments where beauty collects that could have been missed but aren't:
these are gifts, young man.
Cherish them while you have them and dwell on them a little while after they're gone.
Then put them away with all the others.
You may pause for a moment to marvel,
to behold the great sight of all these moments together,
but move on.
Don't hold them in your hand after they spoil.
Set them down and step on top of them, for they are your throne;
they cannot lift you higher if they're still in your hand.
If you clutch them to your breast,
you will never see any more than those few you can hold.
Wandering around with your hands full like an fool;
like a sinner.
Just let them go
and be free.
Look to the sky, my beloved, and see.
See the way it all works;
things as they are.
In the top floor of the tallest building,
there sits the richest man in the world.
He looks across the land,
and thinks that it is his.
He sneers a challenge at the sky,
and waits for his answer.
Waits until death.
But look higher,
and see the brave who fly amongst the clouds.
They, though higher than the rich man,
understand the power of the Heavens,
and respect the wind, the clouds, the lightning, and the rain.
Though these brave souls soar above all lands and men,
they do not venture to possess them.
For they know that a single breeze,
a single strike from a cloud,
or even the mere presence of ice,
could send them careening from their throne.
Some day, my son, you will inherit my kingdom.
And when that day comes, I implore you:
heed the wisdom of the men of flight.
And you will be fit to rule.
-your loving Father
The Tyranny of Familiarity, (or why it took me four years to stop worrying and love Home)
Over the years I have grown increasingly aware of the fact that I simply do not understand this place called "home".
It's deceiving, because you really think you do know all about home. That's like, the definition of the place.
Wrong.
Home is a tricky thing to define. I once gave the definition of home as the place where I've set my journals down. But today, I'll set the definition as that place where you grew up and where your family still lives.
For me, very clear and brilliant thoughts almost never occur in the armchair. I can't just sit down and think, expecting witty connections to just occur.
Instead, they happen while I'm doing things. It would be a rare occasion that my mind is actually focused on the activity before me. It's always wandering, and it does its best wandering while my hands or ears are occupied. The thoughts will come while I'm walking to class, or during a homily, or (sadly) while someone else is talking. They'll pop into my head and demand attention, and who am I to refuse?
So if you'd look, 2 years ago you'd have said that I was at the pub in Donegal talking to Mario, but in reality my attention was actually on the nature of going home. Spinning around, making clever observations and struggling against the cloudy monstrosity of language to find clever ways to express them.
For a child, going home is the natural end to the day.
For an adult, going home is an intensely complicated affair.
Going home has the potential to be one of the most satisfying as well as frustrating experiences an adult can have. Home is the comfortable host of many happy memories, so going home should be a peaceful and warm experience.
But of course, soon into college I recognized that it was exactly NOT peaceful and warm. It was often nerve-racking and difficult, and above all it was annoying. Something about going home was supremely annoying, and I really couldn't put my finger on what that was.
However, there in the pub with Mario, it all made sense. You see, he had just given me the honor of watching him go home. I accompanied him across the Emerald Isle to his tiny hometown. We drove for a very long time through a valley, until we could turn and climb the right-hand slope and arrive at his house.
And that's when everything changed.
You see, the Mario I knew was very calm and excellent with people. He strongly disliked conflict, and was very good at defusing a tense situation.
It took 4 hours for this to completely change. In 4 hours, he had a domestic with his dad and we were kicked out of the house. 4 hours, and his character completely changed.
His mom sat with me in the kitchen the whole time, nursing her tea while the hot Irish tempers pounded against the wall. She smiled her soft knowing smile, and meekly said, "some things never change."
"SOME THINGS NEVER CHANGE?!" I raged inside my head later that evening at the pub, back with the Mario that I had come to know. "Do you even know your child?!"
That's when it occurred to me: no, she doesn't know him. Not anymore. Mario had been away from home for quite some time now, and all that while he'd been growing and changing and getting to be more of himself.
And all of this happened away from the eyes of his parents. To them, a child left home and a child returned. It's like they set a book down, and when he returns they simply pick the book right back up and the characters and setting and plot are all exactly as they were when they put the book down.
The problem is, homecoming is not like picking up a book where you left off. They didn't account for the change in Mario, 'cause they didn't see it happen. He had changed immensely, but their Expectation remained exactly as it was.
Expectations are dangerous things. They prime you for an experience, forming the kind of embrace that you open to an event. And therefore, they begin to form experiences.
I'm really susceptible to expectation. It's supremely annoying, watching myself change the frequency of my voice and my grammar and the very way I form thoughts just to meet an expectation.
Like with Matt.
Matt sees me as a snot-nosed sophomore. It was the first thing he saw of me. And he saw this through the eyes of his return from the novitiate, so he looked back at this image from his past (me) from which he had grown immensely and he snarled with a knowing disgust. I was the image of his juvenile days, and there I have remained ever since.
And though I think and act as if I've grown out of that Sophomore Self, Matt hasn't stopped expecting it from me. And therefore, when I talk to Matt I watch in frustrated amazement as my maturity evaporates and I bend to meet his expectation.
(what a delightful scheme I've crafted to avoid blame for not being genuine in conversation)
So when one goes home and meets the expectations of home, a war begins. The expectation is that the book can be picked up: the 18-year-old that left will simply be returning.
Within hours, the years of intense growth all-of-a-sudden threaten to evaporate. But you dig your feet in. First, you avoid the problem. You withdraw into your room and sleep, or sneak a book out for a walk and sit in the park for hours, or jam your evenings full of dinners with friends who understand the problem.
But you can't avoid the interaction and eventually are forced to spend your time in the Expectation Chamber. And in the Chamber, you become ornery and short and attempt to cut the conversation away with rudeness.
If you're like Mario, you might even start yelling and get kicked out of the house. But his mom was wrong. Things have changed. He's no longer yelling because he's a hormonal teenager. This time he's yelling at the Expectations. He's at war, and this is his defense.
I think that's partially why I got my tattoo. No, not to prove to the Expectations that things really have changed. Really, I didn't even plan on telling my parents. It was for me, so that when I retired behind a closed door I could lift up my shirt and see the mark of my change. There, unmistakably, the permanent sign (of ideas that all arose after my departure from home) would call me out of the Expectations and back to adulthood.
The tattoo wasn't just a mark of rebellion; it was armor for battle.
But a weird thing happened this last time I've come home: there was skim milk in the fridge.
My family is a 2% family. We've been getting 2% for decades. Good, healthy milk.
So you can imagine my shock when I opened the fridge to find skim milk. The healthy bug hit the house, and somehow healthy milk was a casualty.
And then I realized: home is changing too. All this time I thought my parents were the villains, tainting my homecoming with Expectations. Right then, I realized that they too were warring against the tyranny of failure-to-recognize-change. My tyranny.
I expected that home was a place that was necessarily familiar. And sure, Familiarity can be an important ingredient in establishing the place called home, but eventually, Familiarity will fall to Change, and your family will start buying skim milk.
But the next day is really when the worlds collided.
I was upstairs, but the sound traveled. The conversation reached my ears. They were discussing my tattoo. And they were...oddly ok with it.
(In a young house filled with young children, the absence of those children is a reprieve. In an old house filled with visiting-children, the absence of those children is an opportunity to discuss them.)
The day before, I realized that home had changed. My parents are older and the house bears the signs of Empty Nest. Diets have started to change, and so have the characters that embraced them. And yet every time I returned I expected the place of familiarity. I had expectations and Home warred against them. But now I was ready to see home for who it had become.
And home was ready too. The tattoo was shocking, because they could see that I've changed. It was inescapable. But they adjusted quickly. The Expectation Josh would never have done that, so clearly we are no longer dealing with Expectation Josh.
So, for the first time in 4 years, I'm in the beginning stage of a healthy homecoming. Healthy for me, and healthy for home.
Just in time to disappear forever.
It's deceiving, because you really think you do know all about home. That's like, the definition of the place.
Wrong.
Home is a tricky thing to define. I once gave the definition of home as the place where I've set my journals down. But today, I'll set the definition as that place where you grew up and where your family still lives.
For me, very clear and brilliant thoughts almost never occur in the armchair. I can't just sit down and think, expecting witty connections to just occur.
Instead, they happen while I'm doing things. It would be a rare occasion that my mind is actually focused on the activity before me. It's always wandering, and it does its best wandering while my hands or ears are occupied. The thoughts will come while I'm walking to class, or during a homily, or (sadly) while someone else is talking. They'll pop into my head and demand attention, and who am I to refuse?
So if you'd look, 2 years ago you'd have said that I was at the pub in Donegal talking to Mario, but in reality my attention was actually on the nature of going home. Spinning around, making clever observations and struggling against the cloudy monstrosity of language to find clever ways to express them.
For a child, going home is the natural end to the day.
For an adult, going home is an intensely complicated affair.
Going home has the potential to be one of the most satisfying as well as frustrating experiences an adult can have. Home is the comfortable host of many happy memories, so going home should be a peaceful and warm experience.
But of course, soon into college I recognized that it was exactly NOT peaceful and warm. It was often nerve-racking and difficult, and above all it was annoying. Something about going home was supremely annoying, and I really couldn't put my finger on what that was.
However, there in the pub with Mario, it all made sense. You see, he had just given me the honor of watching him go home. I accompanied him across the Emerald Isle to his tiny hometown. We drove for a very long time through a valley, until we could turn and climb the right-hand slope and arrive at his house.
And that's when everything changed.
You see, the Mario I knew was very calm and excellent with people. He strongly disliked conflict, and was very good at defusing a tense situation.
It took 4 hours for this to completely change. In 4 hours, he had a domestic with his dad and we were kicked out of the house. 4 hours, and his character completely changed.
His mom sat with me in the kitchen the whole time, nursing her tea while the hot Irish tempers pounded against the wall. She smiled her soft knowing smile, and meekly said, "some things never change."
"SOME THINGS NEVER CHANGE?!" I raged inside my head later that evening at the pub, back with the Mario that I had come to know. "Do you even know your child?!"
That's when it occurred to me: no, she doesn't know him. Not anymore. Mario had been away from home for quite some time now, and all that while he'd been growing and changing and getting to be more of himself.
And all of this happened away from the eyes of his parents. To them, a child left home and a child returned. It's like they set a book down, and when he returns they simply pick the book right back up and the characters and setting and plot are all exactly as they were when they put the book down.
The problem is, homecoming is not like picking up a book where you left off. They didn't account for the change in Mario, 'cause they didn't see it happen. He had changed immensely, but their Expectation remained exactly as it was.
Expectations are dangerous things. They prime you for an experience, forming the kind of embrace that you open to an event. And therefore, they begin to form experiences.
I'm really susceptible to expectation. It's supremely annoying, watching myself change the frequency of my voice and my grammar and the very way I form thoughts just to meet an expectation.
Like with Matt.
Matt sees me as a snot-nosed sophomore. It was the first thing he saw of me. And he saw this through the eyes of his return from the novitiate, so he looked back at this image from his past (me) from which he had grown immensely and he snarled with a knowing disgust. I was the image of his juvenile days, and there I have remained ever since.
And though I think and act as if I've grown out of that Sophomore Self, Matt hasn't stopped expecting it from me. And therefore, when I talk to Matt I watch in frustrated amazement as my maturity evaporates and I bend to meet his expectation.
(what a delightful scheme I've crafted to avoid blame for not being genuine in conversation)
So when one goes home and meets the expectations of home, a war begins. The expectation is that the book can be picked up: the 18-year-old that left will simply be returning.
Within hours, the years of intense growth all-of-a-sudden threaten to evaporate. But you dig your feet in. First, you avoid the problem. You withdraw into your room and sleep, or sneak a book out for a walk and sit in the park for hours, or jam your evenings full of dinners with friends who understand the problem.
But you can't avoid the interaction and eventually are forced to spend your time in the Expectation Chamber. And in the Chamber, you become ornery and short and attempt to cut the conversation away with rudeness.
If you're like Mario, you might even start yelling and get kicked out of the house. But his mom was wrong. Things have changed. He's no longer yelling because he's a hormonal teenager. This time he's yelling at the Expectations. He's at war, and this is his defense.
I think that's partially why I got my tattoo. No, not to prove to the Expectations that things really have changed. Really, I didn't even plan on telling my parents. It was for me, so that when I retired behind a closed door I could lift up my shirt and see the mark of my change. There, unmistakably, the permanent sign (of ideas that all arose after my departure from home) would call me out of the Expectations and back to adulthood.
The tattoo wasn't just a mark of rebellion; it was armor for battle.
But a weird thing happened this last time I've come home: there was skim milk in the fridge.
My family is a 2% family. We've been getting 2% for decades. Good, healthy milk.
So you can imagine my shock when I opened the fridge to find skim milk. The healthy bug hit the house, and somehow healthy milk was a casualty.
And then I realized: home is changing too. All this time I thought my parents were the villains, tainting my homecoming with Expectations. Right then, I realized that they too were warring against the tyranny of failure-to-recognize-change. My tyranny.
I expected that home was a place that was necessarily familiar. And sure, Familiarity can be an important ingredient in establishing the place called home, but eventually, Familiarity will fall to Change, and your family will start buying skim milk.
But the next day is really when the worlds collided.
I was upstairs, but the sound traveled. The conversation reached my ears. They were discussing my tattoo. And they were...oddly ok with it.
(In a young house filled with young children, the absence of those children is a reprieve. In an old house filled with visiting-children, the absence of those children is an opportunity to discuss them.)
The day before, I realized that home had changed. My parents are older and the house bears the signs of Empty Nest. Diets have started to change, and so have the characters that embraced them. And yet every time I returned I expected the place of familiarity. I had expectations and Home warred against them. But now I was ready to see home for who it had become.
And home was ready too. The tattoo was shocking, because they could see that I've changed. It was inescapable. But they adjusted quickly. The Expectation Josh would never have done that, so clearly we are no longer dealing with Expectation Josh.
So, for the first time in 4 years, I'm in the beginning stage of a healthy homecoming. Healthy for me, and healthy for home.
Just in time to disappear forever.
Monday, July 21, 2014
Theo-lithography
"Let ev'ry creature rise and bring Peculiar praises to our king."1
Oh Isaac Watts, you dog. You go and take something so usual and make it so fantastically extraordinary. Of course our praise is peculiar! What a lovely thought!
11:45 and I'm going home from Simpsonville. The most wonderful thing about heading home at this hour of the night is the lack of traffic. I can take ANY route I wish. Every route opens before me like a wonderful opportunity, each screaming my name and begging me to follow.
Naturally, I took Batesville Rd. I was feeling pensive, and the most secluded and windy road is the only choice for such a mood. I can push my car's limits around the curves without the anxiety of traffic or cops with the windows down and the brights up. In a metropolitan area of 800,000 people, I only saw 3 cars on my whole journey.
Few can truly enjoy this road, following it's curves from Simpsonville all the way to Greer. This is pleasure that is singularly mine.
The great thing about Batesville Road is that in the dark the twists and turns all look the same. You accelerate into curve after curve and truly lose yourself on the journey.
And just when it seems like you've been on the road just a little bit too long, you are suddenly next to the graveyard next to the Gurn's neighborhood.
That's when you pass the first Publix. Right there is where the road tries to trick you by turning into Pelham Road, but you know to take the right turn onto the small street that becomes Batesville again.
More curves bring you closer and closer to the distant smell of the county landfill, and before you know it you cross the bridge over the highway. It's one of those small bridges that narrows, and even though you're passing over a piece of the Eisenhower Interstate Highway Network, you barely even notice. The bridge is just as insignificant to you as it is to the speeding semi trucks beneath you.
And all of a sudden you tear out of the trees and pass the second Publix. Almost there. Watch for the left turn to take you through the Thornblade Golf Course.
It's muscle memory now. Right then left then the Roller Coaster Hill. Downdowndown to the bottom and then coast upupup to the top. Stop. Downdowndown into the trees and then coast upupup into your neighborhood.
Who would imagine what fond memories could sprout from a well-traveled route home? The prodigal son must have had this experience on the road to his father's house...
But my mind wasn't on the drive. It was on Emily. A beautiful soul, one that taught me what it means to be meek and humble of heart. Literally, I learned the meaning of that phrase by watching her.
Emily recently discovered a new passion, and it has torn her life apart (in a good way). The passion brought years of work into jeopardy, and caused her to abscond from reasonable and economical future plans in pursuit of it.
That passion is art. Printmaking, to be more precise. An art that I have, until very recently, neither understood nor respected.
But this evening we sat in the living room and she brought our her portfolio. She opened a giant black bag and pulled out piece after piece, explaining how each one happened and why she loved it so much. It was joyfully intimate, seeing her portfolio open on the carpet and gazing down on the pieces of paper that violently threw her life into such a headspin.
"It's frustrating, because I just can't see how I could do this with my life. It seems selfish, and not like I'm serving God."
Printmaking. A rather peculiar medium, in my opinion.
I've never thought much of prints like these, and yet as I sit there on the carpet listening to her explain each one to me I'm astounded. I love them. Each one is so unique, a product of intense internal preparation and precise chemical expression. They're beautiful, I whisper to myself in amazement.
And speeding around curves of Batesville Road, it occurred to me: what a peculiar way she has chosen to praise the Lord.
It must be praise. Because each print is pregnant with the testament of hearty labor that lovingly captured an aspect of her soul, pressed out of stone by patience and transferred onto paper for my enjoyment.
This is her peculiar praise, and it most definitely serves the Lord.
And I am certain that He is pleased.
1. From the last verse of the hymn "Jesus Shall Reign" by Isaac Watts.
Oh Isaac Watts, you dog. You go and take something so usual and make it so fantastically extraordinary. Of course our praise is peculiar! What a lovely thought!
11:45 and I'm going home from Simpsonville. The most wonderful thing about heading home at this hour of the night is the lack of traffic. I can take ANY route I wish. Every route opens before me like a wonderful opportunity, each screaming my name and begging me to follow.
Naturally, I took Batesville Rd. I was feeling pensive, and the most secluded and windy road is the only choice for such a mood. I can push my car's limits around the curves without the anxiety of traffic or cops with the windows down and the brights up. In a metropolitan area of 800,000 people, I only saw 3 cars on my whole journey.
Few can truly enjoy this road, following it's curves from Simpsonville all the way to Greer. This is pleasure that is singularly mine.
The great thing about Batesville Road is that in the dark the twists and turns all look the same. You accelerate into curve after curve and truly lose yourself on the journey.
And just when it seems like you've been on the road just a little bit too long, you are suddenly next to the graveyard next to the Gurn's neighborhood.
That's when you pass the first Publix. Right there is where the road tries to trick you by turning into Pelham Road, but you know to take the right turn onto the small street that becomes Batesville again.
More curves bring you closer and closer to the distant smell of the county landfill, and before you know it you cross the bridge over the highway. It's one of those small bridges that narrows, and even though you're passing over a piece of the Eisenhower Interstate Highway Network, you barely even notice. The bridge is just as insignificant to you as it is to the speeding semi trucks beneath you.
And all of a sudden you tear out of the trees and pass the second Publix. Almost there. Watch for the left turn to take you through the Thornblade Golf Course.
It's muscle memory now. Right then left then the Roller Coaster Hill. Downdowndown to the bottom and then coast upupup to the top. Stop. Downdowndown into the trees and then coast upupup into your neighborhood.
Who would imagine what fond memories could sprout from a well-traveled route home? The prodigal son must have had this experience on the road to his father's house...
But my mind wasn't on the drive. It was on Emily. A beautiful soul, one that taught me what it means to be meek and humble of heart. Literally, I learned the meaning of that phrase by watching her.
Emily recently discovered a new passion, and it has torn her life apart (in a good way). The passion brought years of work into jeopardy, and caused her to abscond from reasonable and economical future plans in pursuit of it.
That passion is art. Printmaking, to be more precise. An art that I have, until very recently, neither understood nor respected.
But this evening we sat in the living room and she brought our her portfolio. She opened a giant black bag and pulled out piece after piece, explaining how each one happened and why she loved it so much. It was joyfully intimate, seeing her portfolio open on the carpet and gazing down on the pieces of paper that violently threw her life into such a headspin.
"It's frustrating, because I just can't see how I could do this with my life. It seems selfish, and not like I'm serving God."
Printmaking. A rather peculiar medium, in my opinion.
I've never thought much of prints like these, and yet as I sit there on the carpet listening to her explain each one to me I'm astounded. I love them. Each one is so unique, a product of intense internal preparation and precise chemical expression. They're beautiful, I whisper to myself in amazement.
And speeding around curves of Batesville Road, it occurred to me: what a peculiar way she has chosen to praise the Lord.
It must be praise. Because each print is pregnant with the testament of hearty labor that lovingly captured an aspect of her soul, pressed out of stone by patience and transferred onto paper for my enjoyment.
This is her peculiar praise, and it most definitely serves the Lord.
And I am certain that He is pleased.
1. From the last verse of the hymn "Jesus Shall Reign" by Isaac Watts.
Monday, July 14, 2014
#parishlife
What is a parish?
The people who go to my church.
The other people at Mass on Sunday.
The church and the school and the people that go to them.
Ask a few Catholics what a parish is, and they'll give you a host of answers. Most of them will say something like what was written above. Perhaps something a shade more intimate.
But ask a priest, and get a different story. He'll probably say one of two things: either it's a "flock" or a "family" (the really good priests will say both).
That's because these are his two main duties. He's been ordained to be a shepherd (which is the root meaning of the word "pastor"). He tends to his flock, seeing to their safety and making sure they grow strong and healthy.
He's also been given the name "father" to precede his own, and is expected to act as a father would to his family. He provides for them, guides them, and cares for them. He loves his parish like a father would his children.
And for a priest, a parish really is his family. His actual family. Seriously. The way you view your husband or wife or kids? That is how the priest do.
First, he's madly in love with his parish. He's given his entire life for them. He's made a host of heroic sacrifices just to give them every part of himself. The parish is his spouse, and he provides for them in the most important of ways.
Secondly, he's terribly annoyed by them. Just like you get with your family. All those little quirks and excuses and complaints; oh yah, these get on his nerves. But that's part of being a family. He complains about his parish to other priests like a father complains about his family to the guys.
Third, he's incredibly loyal to them. A priest usually hates spending time away from the parish. If he's gone, he's usually thinking about the different families and the rectory and the things that he might be missing. It's rather obnoxious actually. You can't go anywhere without him talking about this and that parishioner and whatnot. And he'll defend his parish to other priests like a father will defend his family to the guys.
Fourth, he grows as a person for the sole purpose of better providing for his family. He stays healthy so he can be flexible with his time and attention. He studies scripture and the spiritual life and the news and literature and everything just so he can better instruct his family in the beauty of the Gospel. He's forgone marriage and the miracle of sex in order to give his entire self to them. Like a father with his wife and children, the priest does not live for himself. Every decision is made with the well-being of his parish in mind.
The sacrificial love of a priest is extraordinary. And for him, the parish really is his family. He needs the people like a father needs family.
Every once in a while, people get it. They realize that the parish is a family.
And that's a beautiful moment. The love is requited, and they become exemplary members of the parish community.
And their gifts can be absolutely wonderful.
Like this morning. Joe was a Extraordinary Minister and was going up the aisle before Communion. He stopped when he got to me, gave me a hug, and said "you go." He wanted me to take his place. He told me, "it's your last week, and you deserve it."
Joe loves being an Extraordinary Minister. Loves it. He has the biggest smile on his face when he does it, because he understands what he's doing.
And in that moment, he wanted to give me a gift. This gift was immensely valuable, like the old woman with the two coins. This was a gift given from the heart, and it brought a tear to my eye (I hope people didn't think I was sick, sniffling while saying "the Blood of Christ").
This summer, I left my college, my friends, and my family. I moved across the country and into the rectory of a strange place. I had no choice but to imitate the pastor, and therefore found myself embracing the parish as my family.
And Joe got it. In two words, he gave me the most perfect gift imaginable.
Parish life is pretty grand, if you ask me.
The people who go to my church.
The other people at Mass on Sunday.
The church and the school and the people that go to them.
Ask a few Catholics what a parish is, and they'll give you a host of answers. Most of them will say something like what was written above. Perhaps something a shade more intimate.
But ask a priest, and get a different story. He'll probably say one of two things: either it's a "flock" or a "family" (the really good priests will say both).
That's because these are his two main duties. He's been ordained to be a shepherd (which is the root meaning of the word "pastor"). He tends to his flock, seeing to their safety and making sure they grow strong and healthy.
He's also been given the name "father" to precede his own, and is expected to act as a father would to his family. He provides for them, guides them, and cares for them. He loves his parish like a father would his children.
And for a priest, a parish really is his family. His actual family. Seriously. The way you view your husband or wife or kids? That is how the priest do.
First, he's madly in love with his parish. He's given his entire life for them. He's made a host of heroic sacrifices just to give them every part of himself. The parish is his spouse, and he provides for them in the most important of ways.
Secondly, he's terribly annoyed by them. Just like you get with your family. All those little quirks and excuses and complaints; oh yah, these get on his nerves. But that's part of being a family. He complains about his parish to other priests like a father complains about his family to the guys.
Third, he's incredibly loyal to them. A priest usually hates spending time away from the parish. If he's gone, he's usually thinking about the different families and the rectory and the things that he might be missing. It's rather obnoxious actually. You can't go anywhere without him talking about this and that parishioner and whatnot. And he'll defend his parish to other priests like a father will defend his family to the guys.
Fourth, he grows as a person for the sole purpose of better providing for his family. He stays healthy so he can be flexible with his time and attention. He studies scripture and the spiritual life and the news and literature and everything just so he can better instruct his family in the beauty of the Gospel. He's forgone marriage and the miracle of sex in order to give his entire self to them. Like a father with his wife and children, the priest does not live for himself. Every decision is made with the well-being of his parish in mind.
The sacrificial love of a priest is extraordinary. And for him, the parish really is his family. He needs the people like a father needs family.
Every once in a while, people get it. They realize that the parish is a family.
And that's a beautiful moment. The love is requited, and they become exemplary members of the parish community.
And their gifts can be absolutely wonderful.
Like this morning. Joe was a Extraordinary Minister and was going up the aisle before Communion. He stopped when he got to me, gave me a hug, and said "you go." He wanted me to take his place. He told me, "it's your last week, and you deserve it."
Joe loves being an Extraordinary Minister. Loves it. He has the biggest smile on his face when he does it, because he understands what he's doing.
And in that moment, he wanted to give me a gift. This gift was immensely valuable, like the old woman with the two coins. This was a gift given from the heart, and it brought a tear to my eye (I hope people didn't think I was sick, sniffling while saying "the Blood of Christ").
This summer, I left my college, my friends, and my family. I moved across the country and into the rectory of a strange place. I had no choice but to imitate the pastor, and therefore found myself embracing the parish as my family.
And Joe got it. In two words, he gave me the most perfect gift imaginable.
Parish life is pretty grand, if you ask me.
Sunday, July 13, 2014
what is this gospel thing, and where do I get one?
"You're missing the point."
That's what I should have said. But I was caught off guard by the question and my mind raced in defense, rather than in patience. And therefore I missed the point as well.
He came out swinging. I'll call him Phil. It was at Bible Study--the morning session, so the median age was 75. The small room filled with silver haired saints still trying to feed themselves on the Word.
We were doing the Rich Young Man. Eye of the needle and whatnot. We read the story and Bob Barron said his piece, and then it was time for discussion.
Phil came out swinging. "I just don't get this. How can a millionaire give millions away to the poor if he never made the millions because he was always giving it away? People need to get rich to give riches away. You can't condemn a good person for having money!"
Agreement ran around the circle. And we hemmed and hawed and did our best to explain what it means to have a spirit of unattachment and simplicity and thirty minutes later we hopefully made a point or two. But Phil wasn't satisfied; you could tell.
And he should have been confused. We didn't do him justice. How? By trying to answer his question.
Last week, a bunch of nuns had us over for dinner.
It was awful, in the not-nice definition of the term.
They live across the street from the parish but you hardly ever see them. I know who they are because they're the ones that change the "Father" to "Lord" and the "Him" to "God" during Mass. (Ok, so I'm totes for certain types of gender correcting in Catholic liturgy. I don't think it's completely necessary, because when I see that "God came to save man" I know that it means mankind. But if our language could be more hospitable, then that's fine. But taking license to change the words yourself? That I am NOT ok with. Let people who know what they're talking about argue with other people who know what they're talking about to determine the meaning of that Greek word; don't think for a moment that you, the average Joe/Jo, should feel comfortable reinterpreting scripture so it sounds better in your ears. And as far as not liking the term "Father": deal with it. I understand that God is infinite and probably transcends the assignment of gender, but we are most definitely NOT infinite, so Christ instructed us to call him Father. Regardless of whether or not God transcends gender, he chose to reveal himself as Father and Son and Spirit to us, so get over yourself and refer to him by the name he used to introduce himself!)
We had dinner with them. Bunch of seminarians sitting around a table of pant suits and butch haircuts.
They asked us why we receive communion on the tongue. And thus began their rant. Not at us, but in general.
There came a point when Sister To My Left said, "Well, the God I'm looking at doesn't care if you believe [insert church tradition or Canon here]."
You know Sister, we have a name for the God you're looking at. We call him Baal. Legion. Beelzebub.
Satan.
Death hung in the air around the dinner table. Her words were death.
I desperately wanted to flee. To run. Out of the room and across the threshold and down the steps and across the street and into the arms of The Church. I certainly didn't find The Church there in the convent.
Sure, there was a church, but not The Church.
I know where we went wrong at Bible study: we did what we were trained to do. I've just spent 4 years studying philosophy in the classroom and at the dinner table. A bunch of people sitting around asking questions with no real practical application and giving answers with even less regard for the practical.
I've been trained to stick my head in the clouds to solve a problem. The sight of a homeless man sends me into a spiral up and out of the room until my head is in the clouds and safely removed from the man before me. Only then, far away from the poor, can I wrestle with the troubles of poverty.
I start coming up with theories and ideas to solve the problem of poverty. But the problem is, I've done nothing for the man in front of me.
Sure, if he asks I might accept the challenge to communicate to him the intellectual conclusions I've made about how he got where he is and how I plan to lift him and all his brethren out of their unfortunate situation.
Philosophy didn't teach me how to solve a problem, it taught me how to create a Platform. A homeless man in front of me can't be solved with an outlook on life. The only way I can do anything for him is if I forget that nonsense, bow down to him, and serve him. He can't feed or clothe himself on my ideas.
The Gospel's first manifestation in our lives isn't supposed to launch us into a debate about grand life questions. Good news isn't the sterile object of a thought-experiment. It's personal and life-changing.
Life-changing. Good news means change. Something is changing, for the better.
I should have told Phil he's missing the point. He was asking the wrong question. The passage made him uncomfortable, and he turned that discomfort into a thought-experiment dealing with the moralty of an unnamed "rich man" acquiring wealth. And rather than bring it back to his own life, giving him the opportunity to deal with the change this Good News required of him, I swung into a philosophical defense. I tried to make the story palatable, rather than true.
I should (yes, I meant to say "should") have pushed him. "Well Phil, rather than discussing a hypothetical rich man, look at it this way. If Christ's challenge to give everything you have to the poor makes you uncomfortable, then why? Look at your life and identify what it is that makes that challenge so difficult. Don't try and accuse Christ of failing to understand philanthropy; look at your own life and find out what this passage requires of you. What does it change? Get your head out of the clouds, start looking at the ground in front of you, and figure out what you need to do with that ground in order to address the discomfort."
The problem with Sister To My Left is that she's spent so much time with her head in the clouds contemplating the general philosophical questions of the faith that she's lost touch with the word Gospel. She sees the world through the lens of grand philosophies, and those lenses have begun to obstruct her vision. She no longer sees reality; just thought experiments. She no longer hears the cry of the actual poor, but rather the ones she's created in her own mind.
And so she starts telling me about this god that "she's looking at", and it bears no resemblance to the actual God. Because she's no longer actually looking.
She has eyes but she cannot see; ears but she cannot hear.
That's what I should have said. But I was caught off guard by the question and my mind raced in defense, rather than in patience. And therefore I missed the point as well.
He came out swinging. I'll call him Phil. It was at Bible Study--the morning session, so the median age was 75. The small room filled with silver haired saints still trying to feed themselves on the Word.
We were doing the Rich Young Man. Eye of the needle and whatnot. We read the story and Bob Barron said his piece, and then it was time for discussion.
Phil came out swinging. "I just don't get this. How can a millionaire give millions away to the poor if he never made the millions because he was always giving it away? People need to get rich to give riches away. You can't condemn a good person for having money!"
Agreement ran around the circle. And we hemmed and hawed and did our best to explain what it means to have a spirit of unattachment and simplicity and thirty minutes later we hopefully made a point or two. But Phil wasn't satisfied; you could tell.
And he should have been confused. We didn't do him justice. How? By trying to answer his question.
Last week, a bunch of nuns had us over for dinner.
It was awful, in the not-nice definition of the term.
They live across the street from the parish but you hardly ever see them. I know who they are because they're the ones that change the "Father" to "Lord" and the "Him" to "God" during Mass. (Ok, so I'm totes for certain types of gender correcting in Catholic liturgy. I don't think it's completely necessary, because when I see that "God came to save man" I know that it means mankind. But if our language could be more hospitable, then that's fine. But taking license to change the words yourself? That I am NOT ok with. Let people who know what they're talking about argue with other people who know what they're talking about to determine the meaning of that Greek word; don't think for a moment that you, the average Joe/Jo, should feel comfortable reinterpreting scripture so it sounds better in your ears. And as far as not liking the term "Father": deal with it. I understand that God is infinite and probably transcends the assignment of gender, but we are most definitely NOT infinite, so Christ instructed us to call him Father. Regardless of whether or not God transcends gender, he chose to reveal himself as Father and Son and Spirit to us, so get over yourself and refer to him by the name he used to introduce himself!)
We had dinner with them. Bunch of seminarians sitting around a table of pant suits and butch haircuts.
They asked us why we receive communion on the tongue. And thus began their rant. Not at us, but in general.
There came a point when Sister To My Left said, "Well, the God I'm looking at doesn't care if you believe [insert church tradition or Canon here]."
You know Sister, we have a name for the God you're looking at. We call him Baal. Legion. Beelzebub.
Satan.
Death hung in the air around the dinner table. Her words were death.
I desperately wanted to flee. To run. Out of the room and across the threshold and down the steps and across the street and into the arms of The Church. I certainly didn't find The Church there in the convent.
Sure, there was a church, but not The Church.
I know where we went wrong at Bible study: we did what we were trained to do. I've just spent 4 years studying philosophy in the classroom and at the dinner table. A bunch of people sitting around asking questions with no real practical application and giving answers with even less regard for the practical.
I've been trained to stick my head in the clouds to solve a problem. The sight of a homeless man sends me into a spiral up and out of the room until my head is in the clouds and safely removed from the man before me. Only then, far away from the poor, can I wrestle with the troubles of poverty.
I start coming up with theories and ideas to solve the problem of poverty. But the problem is, I've done nothing for the man in front of me.
Sure, if he asks I might accept the challenge to communicate to him the intellectual conclusions I've made about how he got where he is and how I plan to lift him and all his brethren out of their unfortunate situation.
Philosophy didn't teach me how to solve a problem, it taught me how to create a Platform. A homeless man in front of me can't be solved with an outlook on life. The only way I can do anything for him is if I forget that nonsense, bow down to him, and serve him. He can't feed or clothe himself on my ideas.
The Gospel's first manifestation in our lives isn't supposed to launch us into a debate about grand life questions. Good news isn't the sterile object of a thought-experiment. It's personal and life-changing.
Life-changing. Good news means change. Something is changing, for the better.
I should have told Phil he's missing the point. He was asking the wrong question. The passage made him uncomfortable, and he turned that discomfort into a thought-experiment dealing with the moralty of an unnamed "rich man" acquiring wealth. And rather than bring it back to his own life, giving him the opportunity to deal with the change this Good News required of him, I swung into a philosophical defense. I tried to make the story palatable, rather than true.
I should (yes, I meant to say "should") have pushed him. "Well Phil, rather than discussing a hypothetical rich man, look at it this way. If Christ's challenge to give everything you have to the poor makes you uncomfortable, then why? Look at your life and identify what it is that makes that challenge so difficult. Don't try and accuse Christ of failing to understand philanthropy; look at your own life and find out what this passage requires of you. What does it change? Get your head out of the clouds, start looking at the ground in front of you, and figure out what you need to do with that ground in order to address the discomfort."
The problem with Sister To My Left is that she's spent so much time with her head in the clouds contemplating the general philosophical questions of the faith that she's lost touch with the word Gospel. She sees the world through the lens of grand philosophies, and those lenses have begun to obstruct her vision. She no longer sees reality; just thought experiments. She no longer hears the cry of the actual poor, but rather the ones she's created in her own mind.
And so she starts telling me about this god that "she's looking at", and it bears no resemblance to the actual God. Because she's no longer actually looking.
She has eyes but she cannot see; ears but she cannot hear.
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