St. Paul

To most of the Catholic world, this is simply June 30, memorial of the Martyrs of the Church of Rome--a nameless group whose number we cannot even begin to estimate, especially given that it extended across an empire and several centuries. But to the members of the Pauline Family, this is our mega-feast of St. Paul. We have our own liturgical celebration, including the Divine Office, for this feast. And there are plenary indulgences attached (under the usual conditions) for all members. I believe that includes the Pauline Cooperators, our lay associates group: another good reason for anyone interested in promoting the Gospel in the spirit of St. Paul to join up. Unless you are already a member of one of the Pauline institutes of consecrated life, of which there are nine (one for priests/brothers, four for religious sisters, one for diocesan clergy, one for single men, one for single women and one for married persons). Alberione claims that it was Paul, not he, who was the actual founder. (Paul was busy in life and in death!)
To honor our patron, I am posting the newest image I have of him. It is from the doorway of the "Collegio di San Xeronimo" (that is "Jerome" or "Jeronimo", and no, he is not the patron St. of Xerox). The Collegio is located in the principal plaza outside of the Cathedral in Compostela. On the left side were James and two unidentiable saints; on the right side of the doorway were Peter, Paul and Bernard. Nicest Paul I've ever seen, with the possible exception of a little marble Michaelangelo Paul in the Cathedral in Siena.
Thank you to all who prayed for us on our special day!

news flash!

New Line Cinema has launched the official website for director Catherine Hardwicke's The Nativity Story,
opening worldwide in theaters on December 1.

www.TheNativityStory.com

 

Dear Abby

Advice columns are a great way to keep in tune with the needs of the age, but sometimes they make me really, really mad. Like yesterday. A man wrote that his best friend, his brother, whom he had always wanted as his "best man," was going to probably boycott the wedding. Why? Had the groom offended his brother? Was there a family feud involved? An argument over, say, an inheritance?

No.

The boycotting brother is angry that he cannot enter into a gay "marriage," and so he is protesting the "discrimination" against persons like himself. He cannot bring himself to rejoice in his brother's happiness. In fact, he prefers to sabotage his brother's wedding.

Did "dear Abby" offer the groom any consolation at being let down so severely by his own brother? NO! She chastised him for not being sympathetic! And then she basically said, "We Americans need to learn from the Dutch, etc., etc., and approve gay marriage..."

Wait a minute.

I'm not going to touch the gay "marriage" thing at all. Let's just look at what one sibling is doing to another. By turning his brother's wedding day into an opportunity to make a protest statement against the larger society, the boycotting brother is acting in an incredibly self-centered way. Abby is so wedded to the gay marriage idea that she gave the gay brother a free pass for his selfish and immature behavior. His protest is out of place when it comes to a family member's life. Pity the poor groom, whose "best friend" is so unloving.

Peter and Paul

It's not the day we celebrate as "our" Feast of St. Paul (that would be June 30), but Peter and Paul's shared feast is a solemnity: as big as a feast day can get. They are the co-patrons of the city of Rome, and you see them everywhere (including, of course, St. Peter's Square: here you see Peter, from the back). On this day in 1932, the first Pauline sisters arrived in the United States, and they wept that this day, which in their homeland would have been a holy day (and a big holiday) was just another day of the week. Not for us here in Chicago! That's because, through divine Providence, we have our community day on Thursday and this week one of the Paulists will come to celebrate Mass in the convent chapel. In fact, it will be the newly appointed pastor of Old St. Mary's. So we will meet the pastor and celebrate our shared patron, and send Father home with some fresh brownies so his community has something to celebrate with, too!

Manresa: the Geography of Grace

A couple of years ago I read a book with a title like "Grace Is a Place." Well, I don't really know if that was the title (I suppose I could look it up, but I have already spent way too much time finishing Chapter 13 of the translation, and I have to close the day). Anyway, the expression really is apt for Manresa. When I was growing up, the name Manresa meant the retreat house across the lake where my Dad made a three day silent retreat once or twice a year. Only as an adult did I learn that the "Manresa" I knew about had been named for a tiny town in Spain where the new convert Iñigo de Loyola had incredible mystical experiences, emerging as a master of the spiritual life with the single-minded aim of doing good to souls. I was looking forward to going there myself, seeing the river where God taught Ignatius "the way a schoolmaster teaches a boy"--only the content of that teaching was, basically, the divine mysteries. Things like the Trinity, creation, and even Christ's presence in the Eucharist.

So we sped away from Barcelona with the aim of visiting Manresa. Not the town itself, but the little cave where Ignatius prayed and underwent the first spiritual exercises, and that famous riverbank.

We had not taken into consideration that it might not be open for visitors.

Well, it had been open--until about a half-hour before our arrival. It was a Sunday, and the entrance to Ignatius' cave had closed at 1:00. And would not be open until the following Tuesday, since it is not open on Monday at all. The Jesuits, strangely enough, do not have charge over the cave at Manresa, just over the retreat house that is built right outside. The government runs the entrance to the cave, and the government representative was not swayed by our pleas, nor by the fact that we had traveled 5,000 miles to be there. She was not happy that we were taking up space in the entryway, either. "Come back Tuesday." (Like we would be anywhere in that part of Spain by Tuesday!) Karen was only mildly consoled (in a kind of sour grapes way) to see that the Jesuit retreat center at the actual Manresa was offering things like sacred dance. So we slowly exited. I took a few pictures of the outside wall of the hill in which the cave is set, and of the plants in the area. Then we went up a steep hill to the nearby cathedral. A first communion was just ending, and families were taking pictures. The cathedral was lovely, but it had not been spared the ravages of the Civil War, either. Somehow, I found myself glad that at least the fanatics had left some remnants so that these places of worship could be restored to some degree. Maybe the destroyers here were only half-hearted about their work. (I will post the pictures tomorrow in this same post, God willing, so come again.) From the hill, we could look down on the ancient Roman bridge that took one from the town to the caves and back again--the bridge over the river. Had Ignatius sat beneath this bridge to pray in the heat of the day?

The people here had welcomed Ignatius from the caves as "the holy beggar," and they gave him hospitality and tried to feed him. The son of a woman who sheltered him used to spy on his night prayers!

Once we had gotten back in the car, we were taken through the narrow streets where we noticed a halal meat market and many women in hijab. If there had been "Moors" in Manresa, they would probably have been subject to expulsion by Isabella before Ignatius got there, although Ignatius himself mentions an incident with a "Moor" on his way to Montserrat--just before coming to Manresa to stay. We were following our backwards Ignatian itinerary. Montserrat was where we would spend the night.

Tibetan Mozart

The idea was already a bit unusual: to interweave traditional Tibetan chants with the various parts of the Mozart Requiem, attempting as much as possible to match the tone or purpose of each section. The monks (about ten of them) are part of a group being sponsored by Richard Gere (!). They go around the world with their message of peace and their plea for a free Tibet, but this concert was not a staged performance. It was their real prayer. The spokes-monk said that the first "movement" was an invocation to the forces of goodness, and it was paired with Mozart's "Introit." The Requiem started with their strong, basso profondo (and I mean profondo like an organ pedal) that seemed to last forever, until one or more voices "flipped" into an upper register with a clearer, lighter tone. It was a powerful, wordless sound. Creepy, really. If I hadn't been convinced that these men were the real deal, and had truly dedicated themselves to peace, I would have thought that the sound was demonic. It was that weird. Then they stopped chanting and began making a "joyful noise" with cymbols and bells and huge horns. And then they walked to the side of the stage, and the orchestra began playing the Introit.
Paired to the "Kyrie" was another (to me, identical) chant, but this one was explained as a purification ritual. I was impressed by this, because our culture does not tend to accept the need for purification in the spiritual sense. But the monks were matter of fact about this. And again, the painfully low, thundering bass groan, sustained for minutes at a time.
When we got home, I kept hearing that groan in my memory, and I reflected on the experience. I have never been present for Buddhist prayer of any sort--except in movies. So this was my first encounter with Buddhist chant. But I had heard something similar, I remembered. It was in 1985, when a group of us had the extraordinary invitation to Mass in Pope John Paul's private chapel.
George Weigel has written about John Paul's "groaning" in prayer. We witnessed this that day. The Pope was on his kneeler, and he was vocalizing in low, wordless groans. No one had prepared us for this, and most of us have been somewhat embarrassed to even refer to it. We didn't know what to make of it. Weigel relates it to the "groaning of creation" in Romans 8. So I was reflecting on this connection: the Buddhist monks, praying on behalf of "all sentient beings in the world" express that in the same external form as the Catholic mystic Pope. The Gospels tell us that Jesus "groaned inwardly" on several occasions, too. And Paul says "the Spirit prays within us with unutterable groanings."
Could it be the "voice" of the Spirit that the Buddhists, having no revelation but creation, have welcomed and given a home? There is something so "fitting" in that--especially that a Catholic saint (I use the word in anticipation of the Church's eventual judgment, and in submission to it!) embodied prayer in the same "mode." That's what really tells me that there is something of a primordial language here, something that goes to the roots of creation. How can we so live in Jesus that the Holy Spirit is utterly free to utter his wordless groans in us, as in Pope John Paul?
Any thoughts on this?

What a weekend

Saturday was our community's big Jubilee celebration in Boston (scheduled to coincide as closely as possible with the feast of St. Paul). There were four sisters for 25 years and four sisters for 40 years. There is also a "Golden Girl," ( Sr. Joseph), but she had her solemn celebration in her native Philippines (though I imagine she would have gladly given it another go in Boston, too). Among the Silver Jubilarians was our own Sr. Helen! Since Sr. Susan and Sr. Helena had just finished their annual retreat and were still in Boston, they were able to participate first-hand in the festivities. What is especially interesting about the Silver group is that they are all artists: three of the sisters are involved in visual arts, and the fourth is a musician.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch... Sr. Thecla and I had made plans with one of our volunteers to meet her and her husband at Millennium Park for the evening concert. I packed a picnic, along with a blanket and some folding chairs. The concert title was "A Tibetan Mozart Requiem," with a group of genuine Tibetan Buddhist monks and the Grant Park Orchestra and Chorus. That was such an experience (even though we left just as the chorus was thundering the "Sanctus"--the cold, damp weather was just too much to bear any longer), I want to post a separate reflection on it. Obviously, the picture I posted of Sr. Thecla was from the scene, as we waited to flag down our friends.

Yo-Yo Ma

He's there somewhere, near the person in the red shirt (on stage, of course). I had forgotten about tonight's concert, and just went to the park to pray. It was Jesus who planned that I should come upon a concert rehearsal precisely at that time! By 4:30, there were about 200 people claiming a spot on the "Great Lawn" for the 6:30 concert--and this despite the wet grass and chilly weather. (It is supposed to be summer, I know. I wait all year for it, and this is what we get.)

Picture(36)

Hi from Sr Thecla

Memories: Still More Barcelona!

To continue from where I left off... On Sunday, we had planned to attend the 9:30 Mass at the Cathedral. But when we got there (Barbara and I, at any rate; Karen was really feeling under the weather), it was already the Consecration! At least, so it seemed. The Mass was in Catalan, but judging from the bells.... There went my chance to really experience that marvelous Cathedral: we had to find a Mass within walking distance so as to have our bags packed and ready to go by noon! One of the ushers indicated that there was a Church just on the other side of the Cathedral, so we headed that way. This being a Gothic neighborhood, the streets were not laid out in a grid, but in an interesting set of narrow allies forming loops, curves and islands. We headed down one alley, noticed a pair of police officers and repeated our inquiry about a Church (St. Philip Neri, as it turned out). We were on the right path! Sure enough, the alley opened into a tiny plaza with a fountain in the middle. After a bit of confusion about which of the ecclesiastical-looking doors would lead to the Holy Sacrifice, we went inside.

This Church seemed to have escaped some of the destruction of the Civil War. Maybe it was too nondescript to attract much wrath. Maybe the other glorious Churches in the area were just more attractive targets. Or maybe it was completely restored right away, so that much of it is now crumbling again. At any rate, St. Philip still had altars in the side chapels, and memorial plaques, and old tomb markers in the floor. It also had (ahem, Karen!) a magnificent side chapel of St. Ignatius. (The two saints, both founders, were contemporaries and knew each other. They lived, in fact, about a quarter of a mile down the street from one another, where their bodies repose to this day.) Mass was attended by a couple of dozen people, mostly old-timers, though there were two families with teenagers and "tweens." And the Church was locked within five minutes of the final blessing. But we were grateful to have found the little place.

As we made our exit through the plaza, avoiding the gaze of some rather unwholesome types that were loitering there, Barbara noticed a monument on the "main alley" facing the Cathedral wall. It commemorated a group of local priests who had been put to death on that spot. During the Civil War.

It was time to leave Barcelona. Given our time constraints, we recognized the utter impossibility of traveling by train, so Karen made other arrangements. Since we were nowhere near the famous Gaudi "Santa Familia" Church, we asked the driver to at least take a spin by on the way to the highway. The Church has been under construction for 100 years, and is not really expected to be finished any time soon. I took some video footage as we circled, but we only saw the "infancy narratives" and the Passion scenes on the Church's exterior walls. In that, it reminded me of the Cathedral in Milan--covered in statues. Of course, Gaudi died early on in the project, before he had even completed his own plans, so other artists have been working on it. You can see the different styles. And as you drive out of Barcelona, its odd towers dominate the skyline.

We had not even spent 24 hours in Barcelona, but our next destinations were part of the reason we had come to Spain: Manresa (the scene of the original "Spiritual Exercises") and Montserrat (where Iñigo de Loyola, barely converted to the Lord, spent time in vigil before Our Lady, leaving his sword at the foot of the altar in a knightly gesture of consecration).

Sacred Heart

Today's feast brought to mind the many times St. Paul uses the expressions "love of God" and "love of Christ." I am going to do a computer check (when I have a spare moment to open the program!) and see just how many times it is. I suspect that this really is Paul's major theme--not faith or justification or salvation, even. Just the essential: the source and goal. Paul and John are very, very similar in this.

Feast Day

Today is the feast of St. Thomas More. That makes it the name day of my brother, Thomas More. (And yes, he's a lawyer.)

The first reading is pretty important about Elijah, but not so much about Elijah.... I mean, it is the passage that is recapped in Luke's Gospel, in the announcement Gabriel makes to Zachary about his son, John, whose feast we will celebrate Saturday. "He will go before the Lord...to turn the hearts of fathers to their children..."

And while we're on the topic of feast days, tomorrow is a biggie: the Solemnity of the Sacred Heart! Let's give Jesus a lot of love tomorrow!

Back to Barcelona

When we left off... we had just visited the Church of Santa Maria del Mar. From there, we went toward the Cathedral. The gift shop beckoned Karen and Barbara, while I was intrigued by the architecture in the Gothic Quarter. I kept going down the alley alongside the Cathedral, trying to get a better angle on some interesting balcony or arch. Then I went back toward the Plaza (and gift shop), ducking in to check on my friends, and then out to the Plaza, drawn by the sound of music. It was live music, and the square was filled with people dancing! I trained the video camera on one group, all in a circle with their possessions in the middle.  (Smart move: gypsies were plying the upper level where I was fending off two girls who were engaged in the newest scam. They dress simply, with their hair pulled back, shoulder bags at their sides, and a clip board in hand, and approach bystanders. Attempting to address the person in the appropriate language, they indicate that they are collecting signatures for a petition that has to do with rights for the disabled. They even have a wheelchair logo on the sheets. Once you sign the paper (citizenship is not an issue), they ask if you'd like to give a donation.) Anyway, I had been enjoying the music and the dancing for a while(it turned out to be a traditional Catalonian dance, and everybody knew just when to do what, even though the music itself seemed quite repetitive) when it came to me that it really had been an awfully long time for my friends to be in that tiny gift shop. Sure enough, they were no longer there. I glanced around the plaza, looking for Barbara's orange shirt. Nothing. I hardly dared go in the magnificent Cathedral for fear of missing them somewhere. (Sure enough, I never really did see the inside of the Cathedral--another reason for Jesus to get me back to Barcelona!). Somehow, though, they did come out and find me. (Good thing I stand out in a crowd!)

Photos from Barcelona

These go with the "memories" of Barcelona I posted yesterday (Santa Maria del Mar Church)...

First, a view of the rose window taken from behind the statue of Our Lady:





The doorway where St. Ignatius begged (I presume; it's the front door of a large church with many entrances!):











And the magnificent columns towering above the altar, supporting the arched roof:

Welcome, Sr. M. Thecla!

I'm getting ready to head off to Midway to pick up the newest member of the Chicago community, Sr. Mary Thecla. She's a vibrant Italo-American from Buffalo, full of personality and good sense, and being close in age to my mother, she will relieve Sr. Susan of office as the "senior" community member. It's a good thing she's coming in today, because tomorrow Sr. Helen leaves for Boston, where she will give thanks (along with her co-novices) for the grace of 25 years of religious profession in a celebration on Sunday. Sr. Susan and Sr. Helena will also be there, having finished up their retreats and community meetings. That leaves me and the newbie (new to Chicago, that is) holding the fort on Michigan Avenue--and I'm taking a class at CTU this week, so poor Sr. Thecla won't even have anyone to chat with in the evenings until Saturday! (The class is "Thomas Merton's Contribution to the Theology of Art," and to judge from the first session last night, it will be extremely enriching.) (Got that, Lauren?)

CONGRATULATIONS!

I also have to acknowledge my sister and her husband, who today celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary. I'll see if I have any fairly recent photos.... but time is short, and I really have to get to the airport!

Memories of...Barcelona

Back to the travelogue, at least briefly!

Our first stop in Spain was Barcelona. Except for the seaport, the city is surrounded by rough, scrubby hills. Already in the airport, we saw signage in two languages: Castillian and Catalan. The Masses were in Catalan, which sounds somewhat like Portuguese (with its "eu" sounds and lots of "sh"es). We checked in at the Hotel Monte Carlo on Barcelona's chief promenade, la Rambla. When we arrived, we were told that we had been given an upgrade. That meant that our rooms were every bit as "Monte Carlo" as the name implies. The bathroom alone was larger than the hotel room at the "XX Settembre" Hotel in Rome, as Barbara will attest. Gratifyingly, it did not sport the fine filigree of mold on the walls that we had in Rome, either.

We barely dropped our luggage off when we went rambling down la Rambla to get something to eat. It was about 3 p.m. and we had had nothing but a light breakfast all day. On the waterfront, we found the recommended restaurant ("Seagull Restaurant"; in Catalan it sounds much more appetizing). There I had my very first taste of two Spanish specialties: jamon iberico de bellotta (I may not be spelling this correctly) and paella. The jamon, a kind of prosciutto, is unique not only because it really does melt in your mouth, but because it is from wild pigs that are fed the acorns of a certain oak. The pig's system processes this into a ham product that actually lowers your cholesterol! Goes to show you that animal husbandry may have done a disservice to the human condition. I mean, if domesticated animals do not have that property, but the wild pigs do, is it something in the domestication that has gradually changed them, and not for the better? As for the paella, to get back to my subject, I went all out for my first taste and chose the "riso negro": black paella, with the inky sauce of cuttlefish ink. Quite good.

From there we set out for the Church of Santa Maria del Mar, noteworthy to us because it was here that one Iñigo de Loyola begged for the alms that would allow him to go as a pilgrim to the Holy Land, where he had every expectation of living out his mortal days. The Church is a Gothic jewel, but like so many in Spain, it was ransacked and burned during the Civil War. Characteristic of churches that were subject to desecration, its side chapels were bare, occupied only by a smallish statue (3-5 feet, small for the chapel size). No paintings, no reredos, no memorial plaques, none of the signs of centuries of veneration. We found a decent enough statue of St. Ignatius, and Karen and I took each other's pictures there. The stained glass windows were mostly modern, the originals having been destroyed by fire. (A few originals remain, according to the guidebook.) And the Church's historic statue of Our Lady was saved, and now stands atop a pillar behind the altar.

More memories of Barcelona on another occasion!

Naboth's vineyard

Today's first reading for Mass has to be one of the creepiest in the whole Bible. It tells of some poor, ordinary man who had the misfortune of inheriting the vineyard next to King Ahab's property. Ahab wanted to make a deal with Naboth over the vineyard, but his family property was too cherished for any amount of money. Ahab was angry: he could not convince Naboth. Then Ahab's wife Jezebel (yes, the Jezebel) got involved. She acted like a Mafia don, arranging for Naboth to be framed for traitorous blasphemy and stoned to death. Once that was done, she alerted Ahab that he was free to confiscate the vineyard he had coveted.

I read a while ago about a big university laboratory (I think it was a university, but it could have been a corporation) that patented the genome for a certain variety of cacao from Cote d' Ivoir. The farmers whose ancestors cultivated the plant, breeding it for the wonderful properties the variety in question has are now obliged to pay royalties to this foreign institute for their crops! Their ancestral heritage has been co-opted. Ahab lives.

 

 

Katrina Update

It's been a while since you've heard the latest from my family in New Orleans, and boy is there news.

My sister Jane has been living in a trailer since October, while her furniture and possessions were pulled out of the house and into storage. It wasn't a FEMA trailer (they couldn't get her one until January), but there is a FEMA angle to the story. Anyway, the trailer had numerous problems, and the repairman, one of those who had come in from Michigan knowing that there were jobs to be had, had to keep coming back. Well, Jane thought it would be a nice gesture to invite him to a Mardi Gras parade. Besides, he was kind of cute. (So I'm told. "Cute" is not a word you generally associate with a white-haired laborer--but then, I haven't met him yet.) Well, you get the drift. Something clicked. Jane has been praying for 31 years to meet someone to share her life with. She kind of thought it would happen sooner. And "Jim" doesn't meet any of the criteria she had courteously listed for God to take note of. Never mind. He's Catholic, never been married, and crazy about Jane. The big day is November 11, and the place is the Shrine of Our Lady of Prompt Succor. The FEMA angle? Jim changed jobs: from the trailer dealership to FEMA's trailer repair department. Jane wants the groom's cake to be decorated like a trailer. Jim says, "I'm tired of trailers!" Jane says, "But we met because of a trailer!"

Please pray for the happy couple. They will be coming up here for the fourth of July: I'll get to meet Jane's Jim, and then they'll go to his home in Michigan to see what will be useful for their new life...in New Orleans.

Other less spectacular news: Father's Day will be the first family gathering at Mom and Dad's house since Katrina. They now have a fully operational kitchen and family room. And the other rooms have walls and flooring, so I guess that's pretty operational. (Jane is getting Sheet rock this week, and Nell is hoping her kitchen cabinets will be installed this week--which didn't stop her from preparing all manner of vegetarian goodies for tomorrow's occasion.)

And next week--this isn't a Katrina update, but it does have a Katrina angle (everything back home does): My newest niece, Adeline Grace, will be baptized. The Katrina angle had something to do with the Church air conditioning still not running--a serious enough consideration. I guess they're hoping that fans and an earlier time frame will do the trick.

Yesterday's Post

Sounds like a newspaper: "Yesterday's Post." No, it is just that the post I sent yesterday failed to upload, so here it is:

Today, I realized at Mass, is the 91st anniversary of the founding of the Daughters of St. Paul. Over here at Mundelein, where I am getting ready to pack up the Scripture exhibit, there is a Sister of St. Joseph who just celebrated her 91st birthday two days ago. Sister Veronette is a tiny little handful of impishness and charity. She enjoyed good health (aside from hearing loss and macular degeneration) until this year, when her knees gave out. At her age, surgery is too risky, so she is moving about more carefully, with big braces on both knees. But she is still full of pep and pepper. We should all have that much spirit at 91!

And now that I am back in Chicago, I can put up a few of my surviving Rome pictures. (I didn't want to write about the Spain portion of the trip until I had caught up on the previous posts missing pictures.) On the Colosseum, you can see the difference between where they cleaned and where they stopped when they realized that the patina of grime and who knows what-all else was actually keeping the stone from being eaten away.

Following that, you see the view of the Gesu' dome from the stairway leading to St. Ignatius' room across the courtyard.

The round Church is San Bernardo where I finally did meet up with Sr. Bernadette and with Karen and Barbara, who were wandering all over that part of Rome looking for the round Church by Santa Susanna's.

And finally, another really cool view of the Colosseum.

(These are from the only roll of film from Rome that survived. I had actually used an entire roll just on the Gesu, before we visited the apartment of St. Ignatius.)

Elijah's whisper

Great reading this morning. Elijah on Horeb (Sinai), hiding from Jezebel and Ahaz, the last surviving prophet of the LORD. And the message: Go outside, because the LORD will be passing by. Tornado. Earthquake. Fire. (Hey, didn't Elijah himself call down God's presence in the form of fire to defeat the 400 prophets of Baal, just two short readings ago?) But the Lord was not in any of these attention-getting signs.  Then the tiny whispering sound.

"Truly you are a hidden God," Isaiah wrote. We have to be very silent and still to notice. The presence of God in a tiny whispering sound. The presence of God in a tasteless wafer.

Memories: Rome

I'm going to have to post my few pictures when I get back from Mundelein; I didn't put them in the computer yet. So check back!

Anyway, the day after our failed attempt at seeing the Pope, we had big plans (again). We had arranged to meet Sr. Bernadette, but that became the first adventure of the day. I had left early to go pray (at San Bernardo alle Terme--a round church built over a pagan temple, I believe, at the Baths of Diocletian). Suddenly, I remembered that I hadn't brought the camera (one of the main points of my trip being to get useful footage for my project). Praying that I wouldn't compromise the gathering spot from the very start, I slipped out of church and ran right into Sr. Bernadette! I told her to wait there for the others while I got the camera from the hotel. Little did I realize that the others would be unable to find the Church, which I had described as "across from Santa Susanna and diagonally from O. L. of the Rosary where the Bernini Teresa of Avila is." A small building blocked their view of the little round Church, and they went off toward Piazza Republica and an octagonal former-church-turned-museum. But in the end they found San Bernardo, Sr. Bernadette and (eventually) me. 

First off, we had to find a nice statue of St. Joseph for Barbara's mom. So off we went to the Sisters of the Divine Master (a sister-institute of the Daughters of St. Paul, founded by Bl. Alberione in 1924). The sisters' special area of apostolate is liturgy. They create vestments, tabernacles and chalices, etc. They also run a fine religious shop near St. Mary Major. So we walked to the Basilica and visited Mary, "Salus Populi Romano" and then on to the sisters. We followed that up with a pleasant lunch at a nearby restaurant (on via Cavour, I believe), and then decided that we couldn't leave Rome without going into the Colosseum. So off we went (on foot, of course--it became a bit of a joke that things were "within walking distance," but the Colosseum really was).

Milling around the great arches, we were approached by a young woman who invited us to join an English-language presentation (ticket to Colosseum--with expedited entrace--included; apart from the group, there was a 45-minute wait which you may as well spend listening to the guide). The price was reasonable, and we joined the crowd gathered around a guide with a pretty difficult Italian accent. Still, it was an interesting presentation. (Licensed guides have the equivalent, pretty much, of a Master's Degree in history and have to pass a certification test.) The guide seemed more concerned about the animals that suffered in the vicious games held in the stadium than in the fate of such members of society as gladiators (slaves) and Christians. But it was a good way to spend the wait, and we did get to march straight in when the tour was over. Unfortunately, that did in our plans to visit the room of St. Philip Neri, just one mile away as the crow flies, on the only day of the year that his room is open to the public (his feast day). We had arranged to meet my Jesuit webmaster friend at the Gesu, and then go to dinner. Karen already wrote about how tired we were, meeting Tom only long enough to arrange to meet him later for a meal in Trastevere.

We didn't expect to have so much trouble finding a taxi. And we weren't thinking that Trastevere is a really popular place to get an evening meal. By the time we got into that part of the city, all the places we tried were full. We had planned on a spectacular meal, and now were traipsing through cobblestoned streets, ready to settle anywhere that had four empty chairs (Sr. Bernadette had left us for another appointment). Providentially "il Canonico" (the Rectory) had room inside, and a large antipasto buffet. It wasn't spectacular, but it was definitely enjoyable.

Anyway, wait 'til you see some of my Colosseum pictures!

Memory: Rome

Well, about all I have from Rome are the memories, since almost none of my photos came out. (I was still figuring out how to use the video camera, and the single-use camera pictures got wiped off the film by repeated exposure to security scans. No matter what they tell you, it does damage film, and I have the evidence.)

I hadn't been in Rome since Benedict XVI was elected, and I was really looking forward to seeing him at an audience or Angelus. The way the trip worked out, Jesus is going to have to arrange another visit to Rome, because none of my goals in that regard was met! (Jesus, just so you know, my passport is good through next year...) We went to St. Peter's right away, hoping to get tickets for the next day's audience, but since my last visit new security measures have been put in place. I used to be able to run from my office down the street into St. Peter's for a quick visit to the Blessed Sacrament chapel, or even to make my Hour of Adoration. No more. You'd spend all the time allotted for prayer in the security line, waiting to get your bags and self scanned at the colonnade before making it into Church. And you can't just duck into the Bronze Door to go upstairs and request audience tickets, either. First you have to go through the colonnade security and then get in line. Since Barbara and I both wanted to make an Hour of Adoration, and the line for the Bronze Door was really long, we went to pray. I figured the line would be better in the later afternoon anyway. (Wrong!) (We could have requested tickets earlier, but the member of our party who was responsible for that kind of dropped the ball.) Well, you don't need tickets to hang around St. Peter's Square on Wednesdays, so we figured we would do that. Except none of us was feeling quite okay on Wednesday. The cold Barbara had diagnosed on the plane (and it was a nasty one) was gradually picking us off. By the time I got to St. Peter's (Barbara had a lunch appointment and Karen was feeling ill), the stacking chairs from the audience were turned and tumbled every which way, there was no sign of the Pope, and the security line wrapped 3/4 of the way around the Piazza.  I went around taking pictures, the only Roman pictures that came out, showing the way from St. Peter's to the Sistine Chapel/Vatican Museum entrance. The line snaked for three blocks around the Vatican walls. Then I hurried toward the Palazzo Farnese to meet Barbara and attend the talk she was giving at Holy Cross. I barely had time to rush to a taxi stand and get a ride to the Daughters of St. Paul generalate to meet Sr. Bernadette and Sr. Donna Jean (plus all my sister-friends from the years I had lived there) for supper. It was delightful seeing the sisters' eyes grow in amazement as they recognized me. Providentially, Sr. Donna would be leaving for the US the next morning from a convent very near to where we were staying (near Piazza della Republica and Termini station), so we took a taxi together instead of going by ourselves in a bus. Actually, the bus would have been faster. The taxi driver took us on a last scenic tour of Rome, all the way a-r-o-u-n-d to a Piazza that was only ten minutes from St. Peter's. I ran out of money, so he didn't get a tip. But I did get to say an extra "Buon Viaggio" to Sr. Donna!

Good News, Bad News

I'm at the Mundelein Seminary this week to take care of a book exhibit for the Summer Scripture seminar. The first set of talks, on the Jesus the Evangelizer in Mark, was fantastic. I mean, I only got about half of it, but I was able to record the sessions I missed and am looking forward to finishing it this evening.

 

I was assigned a rather unusual room this year--on the bottom floor, right in the main corridor. Bad news.

But the room appears to be one of the only ones here that has access to the Internet. Good news!

But it is also located next to the TV room. Bad news.

But the TV seems not to be working properly. Good news!

But they might repair it so that participants can watch the World Cup. Bad news.

 

Will the Good News win in the end? Of course it will! (Jesus has already won the victory!)

Memory Serves

In my talk on Eucharistic spirituality, I mentioned that "memory" is one of the most important words in the liturgical vocabulary. Some things can only yield their full meaning in memory. In that, they are a bit like the Paschal Mystery: Even though it took place in history, in time and space, it is just too big to fit. You need to enter it again and again through memory--or through memorial (if you want to be technical). 

That's what the past two weeks (well, the two weeks prior to Monday) was like. There were simply too many places and experiences packed together in those two weeks for two weeks to be adequate to contain it all. We will be going "back" to Rome and Spain again and again, receiving the grace and the meaning that was there for us in events that (in the temporal order of things) are "past." In memory, the past is not "over and done," but open.

Lost and FOUND!

Well, the big news of the day came to me in a voice mail from Barbara Nicolosi's secretary: our luggage was found and is en route to the good old USA. I don't know when I will actually get it, but I hope someone is here to answer the door. Could it be tomorrow afternoon?????

My talk in Peoria went very well, and I had a wonderful time meeting the other presenters. There was some consolation for me, too, when a priest came to our display in the exhibit area and asked if we happened to have copies of "that new Eucharistic adoration book for kids." Well! I just happened to have two copies in my hand at that moment, because I was going to visit the bookstore owners who were present to interest them in stocking it. Father bought a copy right away, and said that his parish had just begun perpetual adoration, so they wanted to prepare a program for the school children. My book fit the bill perfectly! What a joy to have been the one he approached for that.

Tomorrow I will prepare the exhibit for the "Bible and Evangelization" Seminar that will last all week at Mundelein. And now that my luggage is on its way home, I feel a bit freed up to write, at long last, about the Fantastic Voyage.

oh well

Having picked up the remnants of five single-use cameras (about one third of the pictures came  out), and viewed several hours of video footage and digital stills, I am beginning to wonder if God really wanted my cherished project to come out, or if maybe he just wanted me to have the experience of this trip. I really had hoped that the photos would be useful, and the ones I took on Karen's camera did come out well. Alas, 'twas not to be. Maybe...next time? Granted, I didn't have much time to learn how to use the video camera, and the churches in Europe are not exactly well illuminated, but you'd think I'd come out with a little more usable footage than I seem to have. As for the still pictures, I could just cry. But I don't have time for tears right now. I still have to finish editing my talk for tomorrow in Peoria, which is, I am told, a three hour drive from Chicago.

Later I can try to learn how to use the camera and prepare something less exalted, but maybe more achievable than I had hoped from this wonderful, extraordinary trip.

it keeps coming

Well, my luggage is still on vacation. By this point, I have memorized the report number used in the tracking system, but it just keeps giving me the same message (in Italian), saying that the search is still ongoing, and to please check again later.

And today I picked up the photos I had taken for my project. Less than half of them came out at all. One (of all places, the roll that had photos of the Gesu!) was almost all smoked out. It is hard for me not to believe that the repeated exposures to the supposedly safe X-rays in the carry-on scanners didn't have something to do with that. But in that case, I should be most grateful that any photos came out! And if it means that my project is compromised, well, maybe God just wanted me to have the experience of the trip!

So soon you shall see pictures.

And I hope I will someday see my suitcase again. I really kind of needed it for this weekend.

Finding God in Lost Luggage

Found myself rather awake (and at a reasonable hour, no less), so I was able to pray a good two hours before breakfast. Not bad, considering I was in Spain Saturday and Rome Sunday and Monday. Quite a trip. My luggage liked it so much, it's still over there, probably eating paella and sipping sangria while watching the Catalan townsfolk doing their traditional dance in the plaza by the Cathedral of Barcelona...

We filed a report in Rome when only four out of our communal six bags came down the chute, and the Roman concierge was kind enough to call every so often to see if the missing bags had been spotted. Alitalia is ultimately responsible for them, even though it was Iberia Airline of Spain that made the fatal mistake that likely led to their being misdirected. I suspect they went astray from the start, in Santiago de Compostela.

Anyway, as we joked during our trip, we were all coming to a greater appreciation of the Gospel injunction to "take nothing for the journey." Only we didn't expect it to actually "be done unto us" that way!

I checked the Alitalia website this morning to see if their much-vaunted "real time tracker" had any news. Nope. Just "The search is continuing. Please check again later."

Barbara and I would very much like to see our suitcases again before we die... Would you add a little prayer to St. Anthony that they come home soon?

Travel

I like being in new and exciting places, but getting there exacts a real toll on my nervous system. Take yesterday, for example.

It started, well, when we landed in Atlanta early (after 10 hours in the air!) but then had to wait on the tarmac until we were very, very late. And I had a connecting flight to Chicago with not a lot of leeway for delay. We finally pulled up to what had to be the farthest possible gate from Customs. I skipped the moving sidewalk (why do people stand still on a moving sidewalk when they can be going twice as fast if they move on it?) and found the Customs area, which seemed to be relatively empty. My bad! We were escorted to the other side, where hundreds of our co-nationals were ahead of us in line. Thing moved steadily enough, and I was through, though I was able to wave to Karen and Barbara as they processed through just a few yards behind me. So much for power-walking the sidewalk route. Then, when I reached for my cell phone to call the superior and tell her I was in the country. The phone was not tucked into the corner where it has dwelt for two weeks. Immediate panic. The cell phone is gone! Did it fall out? Was it somehow confiscated by Italian security without my realizing it? What would I do now???? All I could do was keep power-walking to Gate B-36. In the shuttle train from the International Terminal, I suddenly realized that I had not seen the throwaway cameras since... Italian security. I knew Karen had them and was putting them in the white plastic bag I had brought, but then what? They weren't in my under-the-seat carry on. They weren't in my backpack. Panic! They're gone! How do I call the Fiumicino security desk? But all I could do was keep heading to Gate B-36 to see if, hoping beyond hope, I would make my flight. Then I got there, and could see that Gate 36 was boarding. But it was to San Antonio, not Chicago! Mild panic. My flight was only changed to the next gate. Whew. And they were slightly delayed. Whew. But where was my boarding pass? It was not in the left-hand pocket where I always slip boarding passes! Panic! "Don't tell me I lost the ticket, too!" I said in a tone that was so tinged with despair that a man near me gave me a quizzical look. "It's been a rough three days," I said sheepishly. Then I pulled my wheelie into a corner and clawed through it. There was a paper shopping bag from Compostela--and the cameras safely tucked inside. (Now all I have to worry about in that regard is whether the many X-ray encounters between Italy, Spain and then the Customs area damaged the film... and wonder how the Lord will use all this for the mission.)

Did you miss me?

It's around 7:00 a.m. Rome time, which means I have been up for about 26 hours straight, but I'm back in Chicago (even if my luggage is still somewhere between Santiago de Compostela and Rome)... Please pray that it, too, may come home soon.

Karen and Barbara managed some Internet access while we were away--a feat I couldn't manage. (Hey, the hotels only had one computer available!) It was a two-week fast from all technology. And for the most part, we were too busy to notice (except for Barbara).

More details when I get some sleep!