Thursday, June 25, 2015

Be careful what you drink!

Dylann Roof is not crazy. What he did is. He slaughtered innocent black people who had welcomed him into their discussion group last week. He was the only white person there. They thought he came to discuss. He knew that he had come to kill. According to believable reports, Roof was a member of a white supremacist group that has a stated goal to kill black people. Apparently that is covered by freedom of speech.
Roof is not crazy. He was simply following the logic of the group to which he belonged. The group is a garden of hatred.  Kill black people. He took his belief to heart. He is being cheered, I'm sure, by his fellow believers who hope that others will follow the dictates of  conscience inebriated by the draught of hate, and do likewise.
People drink from the draught they choose. Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Communism, Buddhism, Atheism. There are divisions and subdivisions, offshoots and inbreeding, from all of them. Extreme versions of any of these ideologies often deny others the right to live, think, speak, even breathe, eat, or drink; they deny a right to an education, insist on inequality, supremacy for the few. They kill.

What I would like to see is something simple to happen. Thinking people, explore the destiny of the path of your chosen ideology. Where does it lead in this life? I am not talking eternity here. No one knows what happens in eternity. We believe or guess at that. It is important to know the logic of our path in this life. How does our chosen ideology allow us to interact with others on the journey who may be different from us. The common denominator: we are all on the journey. We were born naked. We go into the ground with nothing. What do our choices mean as we speak, act, live, love along the way. Bottom line…beware the draught of hate.

Wednesday, June 17, 2015

Nightmare




I reached for the kit. It had dozens of little figurines in it, three or more littles statues of several different chess pieces, kings, queens, knights, bishops, pawns, rooks. It was unreal. The instructions on the test stated that I had to figure out the probability of several of these little people to pop up together under each set of circumstances that would be described in the first ten questions of the exam.

It was a standardized test. I was already way behind in the timing because of some irregularities that I demanded the test proctors remedy, and that they report to the testing organization, a branch of the SAT. I was so screwed. After they distributed the test packets, the area where I was to enter my personal information on the answer sheet was ripped off and lost. My question to the proctor- Where should I enter the information. Can I have a new packet? No, there are just enough for the candidates in the room. Write it on a little piece of paper and staple it to the place where it will go. But the testing company will just throw it away, it won’t fit into their scanning machines. Do it that way. I want you to report this as an irregularity so they know the problem and that I did the test. Yeah, right.  I was wasting precious time that I needed to do the test. I’ll do it and take care of making sure they handle it after I’m finished. I returned to my place, my chair was gone. The others were working diligently on their test. I saw a huge King James(LeBron) oak chair that I managed to lug to my place. I opened my booklet, prepared my answer sheet by printing my name along the margin, stray marks that would probably invalidate the paper, and invalidate me. I read the directions about the little people. One of the other test takers sneered as he shoved the box of little people in my direction. Then he returned his eyes to his paper fearful that he might be accused of cheating. As I opened the box that was tightly wrapped in cellophane for security, I felt frustrated...so much to do...they are so far ahead… they know what they are doing...

I woke up to a sunny day and laughed out loud. My interpretation....feeling inadequate.

Thursday, April 02, 2015

Veni Sancte Spiritus



Thirteen of us, young men, mid-twenties and a few older, lay on the cold marble floor in the sanctuary of the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception in Albany, N.Y. The ceremony of ordination concluded eight years of study that prepared us for the priesthood. The choir in chant called on every saint that ever lived, and some that didn’t to “pray for us” and the angels “to intercede for us”. We all needed a lot of help to do what we were going to do. All those who ever were saintly in life would have our backs. We were not alone. Priests from within a hundred miles came and laid their hands on our heads as a sign that the Holy Spirit would guide us in some way to do a good job. One by one they came. Some pressed hard to ensure that the Spirit was there. Others not so hard. The Spirit smelled, some times like Aqua Velva, and others like he needed a bath. It had boney fingers and stubby ones. I learned that it takes all kinds to make up a Spirit. The choir struck up the 9th century hymn, Veni Sancte Spiritus, “Come Holy Spirit”. Finally we participated in our first mass with all those priests, and Bishop Edward Maginn as chief priest.

We were proud of the journey through the years in the seminary. The church was different from the time we first began to study. The second Vatican Council had occurred . Pope John 23rd had opened the doors to the fresh currents that flowed into religious circles- the use of the vernacular in rites and ceremonies instead of Latin, increased tolerance for other religions, active participation of the congregation in liturgy and parish governance, lifestyle changes for priests and religious. Perhaps a softening stand on contraception. This group of newly ordained became the vanguard to initiate the changes on the local level. We had nothing to do with the changes that were handed down. We looked forward to those in leadership positions to guide us.

Little did we know about the politics of change. We did not appreciate the depths of the old roots. Like playing follow the leader, we accepted celibacy as part of the terms of our service. “Promitto” “I promise” we responded when asked in Latin if we would be faithful and obedient to the Bishop and his successors.

Why wouldn’t we accept celibacy? We all had lifelong schooling that taught this as an excellent way to serve God. We had anticipated this commitment, had warded off temptations to abandon the pursuit of the priesthood, and here we were. There were many talks given about the value of celibacy in order to dedicate oneself to God’s work.

The first conversation I had with a spiritual director in minor seminary- the first two years in college after high school- I was asked “ Why don’t you want to get married?” My programmed response was “Because I want to be a priest and do God’s work.” I was so sure at the time. The director then said “ Wouldn’t you like to have a nice house in the suburbs...wife...kids… barbecuing on the patio?” I guess he didn’t know much about my small city background far from the suburbs. Our family of seven lived in a two story brick house in a residential neighborhood, with a small fenced in yard. I never dreamed about the suburbs. I had never been there. We only had a family car for the last three years of my high school career. Besides, that lifestyle did not fit in with the life of poverty that Jesus led. “No…,” I responded, “I hadn’t really thought much about that.” “It can be a great life,” he suggested. I thought..If that’s so great, why aren’t you there?... and then said “I would rather be a priest.” With this answer, I was cleared to go on. “You will do okay,” as he affirmed my desire.

Through the eight years of study, I managed to stay focused on my goal. Shortly before the eighth year began, I was called into the office of one of the priests at the Theological College in Washington, D.C. where I had been studying, for what was known as a “canonical examination”. This was an interview to determine my general thoughts and intentions about being a priest, and about celibacy in particular. The Church was in a state of flux. Vatican 2 had raised hopes for change in so many areas of church practice. The law of celibacy for priests was different. An effort was made by officials to assure that no one was entering the priesthood under the delusion or condition that the law would be changed. I honestly assured the examiner that my acceptance of celibacy was unconditional, and I was ready for the commitment.

Within a few months, I was ordained a deacon, and a year later, I spoke the word “Promitto” as Bishop Maginn held my hands within his in the ceremony of ordination.

“Veni Sancte Spiritus” echoed in my mind,
Come father of the poor, come giver of gifts, come light of hearts
The best Comforter, delightful guest of the mind, sweet relief.
The spirit descended and I was ready.

Wednesday, April 01, 2015

The House




The frustrated anxious realtor brought us to the last house of the day. “This house has been on the market a while,” she said. “I haven’t seen it yet, but it’s old.”


The aroma of baked ham, drizzling fat mingled with pineapple and cloves inhaled us into the unpretentious little house that we had passed so many times on our way to Chatham. A half mile up the road from where we were living in one of the oldest houses in Austerlitz, Dorothy and Howard Twiss were sitting in the brightly lit living room warmed  by a  glowing fire. “It’s cozy in here,” Dorothy said. “Put the baby down here while you tour.” Phyllis put Dan down on the couch next to Dorothy. Dorothy reached out and patted him a bit. “You’ll be alright. Mommy will be right back.” It was safe and warm.


“Take your time, look around; check out the upstairs,” Howard urged. “We don’t get up there much anymore.” The steep stairs brought us to three dark cob webbed laced bedrooms. There were lots of beds. “We used to take in borders,” Howard exclaimed. “It helped pay the taxes.” The upstairs hallway was tiled, but seemed to have a bulge. The bedroom doors were original and sported original 18th century hardware. The ceilings had cracks, but it was warm up there. I spied a hatch to the attic.


“We seal that off in the winter,” Howard said. “In the summer, there is a fan to cool the attic.”
“Is the space usable?” I asked.


“Well... there are no floorboards up there.” he sheepishly replied. “I needed money to put in the furnace, so I sold them to pay for it.”


We tromped down the stairs. Dan was beginning to stir. While Phyllis picked him up I studied the woodwork in the living room. It was similar to what was in the house where we were living, 1788. The plaster was cracked in a few places. The floor there was shiny, well cared for,and  ancient.


“A little  linseed oil once a year is all I do to keep them nice,” Dorothy offered.


Beautiful!!“ Phyllis told her.


Dozens of little window panes magically filtered the early moonlight, distorted through the molten glass that had drooped over hundreds of years.


“The house was built around 1790,” Dorothy informed us as we continued to wander.


The kitchen, where the roast was baking had a new linoleum floor. “We wanted it to be easy to take care of….just use mop n’ glo“ Howard boasted. “The floor’s a little uneven, but it will last a long time.”


So’s the ceiling, and it probably won’t last long at all. I thought to myself.


There was a slight uphill rise toward the chimney. “There used to be a fireplace that took up this whole wall,” Howard explained. “The floor is built over the stones where it was… that’s why it’s so uneven. The Mercer’s before us took it out so they could have a bigger kitchen.We had a wood stove here before we got the furnace.”


I opened the door to the pantry. The handwrought hinges creaked. “It gets cold in there,’ Howard said. “Cans freeze in there. We try to keep the heat in the kitchen.” I quickly closed the door. Dan was restless in his mother’s arms.


“He’s hungry. Can I nurse him in the living room?” Phyllis asked.


“Sure she can,” Dorothy shouted from the other room. “Come in here and relax.”


Dan had his first of many meals in that house.


“That small bedroom upstairs is warm and quiet. Good for the baby.” Howard said.


While Phyllis took care of Dan, Howard showed me the other living room that was set up as a bedroom. “This room used to be a post office. Maybe it was used before that as a store.” he said.


“How do you know?” I asked.


“The floor was really a mess when we moved in,” he explained. I put in new floorboards and then the rug to keep it warm.”


It was warm. There was a picture window facing the back of the house. “We used to take that window out during the summer,” he said. “We had cows here at one time… scared the heck out of us one day when one of ‘em stuck her head inside and mmmooooed.”


Dan was content, and back to sleep. Phyllis said, “We love it.”


“I guess we’ll get back to you,” I said. “we want to look around outside in the daylight.”


“Come any time,” Howard said. “There are five acres, and another 39 up the hill. You can buy it all if you want.”


We were excited. “Make an offer!”  the realtor suggested. “They are asking $35,000, but are anxious to move south where they have family.”


The next day, we went back. Despite the snow, we looked around outside. The garage housed Howard’s elongated 1967 Pontiac. The wall had been bumped out to accommodate that. There  was also a 1938 Rototiller that Howard had used to plant a potato garden. “It’s one of the first ones built by Frazer!” he remarked. “I’m going to leave that here if you don’t mind. When it warms up in a month, I’ll show you how to start it.” He wanted the tiller to have a new life, that he knew he could not give it. A younger man, a younger couple, children can bring life to the cold, tired landscape.The stream flowed rapidly between the ice sculptured banks toward the south. There was a small hill, apple trees, and blueberry bushes poked through the snow. Visions of sledding, pies and more pies danced in our mind.


The asking price was $35,000. We offered $25,000, and we finally agreed on $30,000 for the house and 5 acres.


As the winter snow diminished, we toured the old cobbler shop behind the house. It housed fire wood, and old tools. There was a tumble down turkey coop, a little tool shed, and a ramp that ended in  mid air where the entrance to the barn once stood.  Parts of the barn were stacked, rotting around the back of the ramp. Much of the barn had been taken away, sold to pay taxes and put a new roof on the house. “When the roof goes, the house goes” Howard advised.


The snow had covered a lot of problems: piles of debris from the barn, little hills of garbage here and there, old wagon parts rotted into the ground, wire fences along the boundaries, lying where their posts had died, now rotting, and a junked 1960 Rambler .


In mid-March, the spring sun encouraged crocus and other bulbs to peek up, and the outline of Dorothy’s gardens were revealed. Periwinkle poked out around the foundation. A bed of rudbeckia was outlining itself near the driveway. Howard dragged out the tired old Rototiller, and gave me lessons. “It’s pretty heavy, but you let it do the work… It just goes along...wear boots… sometimes you hafta’ help it out,” he explained as he ran the tiller again and again over the Rudbeckia. He let me start it. I too made a pass over the RudbecKia. “It won’t hurt the flowers,” he assured me. “They’re tough, and the tiller isn’t going too deep. Ground’s still frozen.”


We walked around a little. He opened the tool shed. “I’m leaving you these mowers… they run...I used ‘em last year. They need fresh gas,”he advised, “but they’re all you need..” The treasures were not impressive.I was not brought up with engines of any kind, and suddenly I was inheriting a barnful of yesterdays toys.


Wherever I went, outside or inside I saw work. Phyllis also saw work, but concentrated on the beauty, the setting, the antiquity, the possibility.


On April 1st, Fools’ Day, we had the closing. We checked hourly from 11:00 a.m. until 2:p.m. and by 2, the Twisses had gone south. They left a studio couch in the living room. By 3:00 , we had moved enough things in so we could be comfortable, including the crib for Dan and a changing table. With firewood, courtesy of Howard and Dorothy, I started a fire in the fireplace. Phyllis prepared shipwreck in an electric frying pan also left by the Twisses.  While the baby slept,we were warm and together by the fire. In our new space, there was no "spaces". We were all babies.

Resurrection required?

I have been thinking memoir almost around the clock lately. Then, Holy Week arrives. I continue to be  intrigued by the story of Jesus, his life, teachings, cruel and inhuman death and improbable resurrection. The stories about Jesus written over time by the"evangelists" portray a very good person, betrayed, disgraced, and crucified. We would know little about Jesus if it weren't for the writings that we have come to know as the gospels, and the new testament. He would have been a footnote in history along with the other messianic figures and rabble rousers that came on the scene to oppose the domination of the Jewish land by the harsh Roman Empire. That harshness is evidenced by the method of execution for the worst revolutionaries who challenged the rule of the Caesars, including Jesus. This humble teacher was considered a threat. He had to go.

If you follow the story in the gospel of the author called Mark, there are parables, events, miracles, and relationships. He ends it with the story about Jesus being seen by the women in his life, some disciples that are not too well known and finally by the apostles who traveled with him most of the time.

Remember Jesus. It’s a memoir.  It's similar to what I'm writing. Different in that the author of Mark tells the story in the third person. A memoir is usually in the first person. Perhaps the epistles of Paul are more akin to the first person memoir.

The stories of Jesus are compelling adventures of a great teacher, who attracted a faint hearted band of followers. The teachings stand on their own as timeless truth, lessons to live by. The parables attach new meaning to scenes from everyday life.

The tragedy of the crucifixion of this good person would be a sad and brutal ending for any story. The short resurrection ending helps us forget the tragedy and revert back to the teachings. A story of goodness requires a happy ending. A resurrection. Not only did this provide a wonderful ending to the sad story, but it made a great spin into a belief system for generations.

New endings are written every day as people encounter and survive tragedies.  New beginnings are required for the survivors. A personal resurrection.

As I write more and more of my memoir, I realize the need for a resurrection narrative of my own. I know it is there, and it’s real. What do I write? How do I write it?

Thursday, December 18, 2014

The meaning of Christmas

What is the meaning of Christmas? Simply put,it's about innocence, and if the whole story is considered, the betrayal of innocence. We tend to focus on one part at a time, Good Friday celebrating the betrayal.

No matter what you think of Jesus, if he was born into this world to suffer and die, you have to wonder about a Father God who would concoct such a scheme that would target a child from birth to go through what Jesus has purportedly suffered. That is the first betrayal. Fathers should not do heinous things to their children. No excuses, no theology should speak of it, nothing, nothing should permit it. I have to believe that the Father God really had other plans, and did not approve of the situation he found his son in. If he had a do it over, a different path to salvation would have come about.

I think a second betrayal of innocence is what happens in society today. We see it in schools and on city streets throughout the world. For some reason, it has become okay to snuff out life of the innocent. Young people who have had little opportunity to blossom as individuals get destroyed, often because they happen to be in the wrong place in the neighborhood, or city, or country.

The betrayal is supported by the system that encourages revenge, an eye for an eye; a body for a body; a crime for a crime. It's supported by a bureaucracy that allows virtually anyone to have a gun. In some places, the gun can be worn as an appendage, and is used as such. The betrayal comes full circle when grand juries decide justice, denying a fair public trial based on evidence. The innocent, the victim lying in the street, and the person(s) causing the death, cry out for justice.
Justice assumed is the betrayal of innocence.

So we celebrate innocence at Christmas. We revel in it. We pray, we are mindful of its importance and it's fragile nature. We celebrate our determination to protect it, to work for it, no matter our beliefs, no matter our petty differences, no matter the thoughtless Facebook aphorisms to the contrary. Let innocence reign, please.

Saturday, April 19, 2014

Hail Zeus

We shared the bread after a team effort to bake it, and then the two lively girls bowed down in adoration to their new friend Zeus. Zeus, the elegant old boxer, leapt for joy as they entered the kitchen area, prepared to take on all comers, jumping around, his 95 pounds, jostling the lithe ten-year olds, nearly knocking them over. Eventually he calmed down, and the friendship began.

Ellie and Sophie had come with Jenny to bake Bucellate, an Easter bread that I had taken on as my tradition, following in the footsteps of my mother and Italian grandmother. The recipe is different from theirs, but the ritual of making festive bread is what counts. As I got out the bowls, one for each of the four bread makers, the girls lay on the floor next to mighty Zeus, imitating his stretched out image. Then as I prepared the yeast and added ingredients to the individual bowls, they began petting him, rubbing his soft fur, certainly dislodging  a great deal of it with each stroke.

The hairs will be in the bread I thought. "Wash your hands, girls," Jenny said, " They have to be clean so you can knead the dough." Reluctantly, the girls rose up from their coddling and repaired to the bathroom to wash up. When they came to the table to mix the ingredients, Zeus followed them. His tradition was to hang around wherever there was food, hoping to have some scraps from the table. No pieces fell, but he did get a few more pats on the head from the girls, much to my chagrin since I was trying to do the process with no contamination from dog hair.

Eventually, the bread dough got mixed and kneaded the required time and was returned to the bowls for the first rise that would take about an hour. The girls went out to play in the sunny 50 degree heat that was melting the few patches of snow cover remaining from the April storm of the day before. Zeus, excited to have playmates, romped out to the stream with them. All returned within a few minutes, and then the girls, uncertain about the adults reaction,  popped the question, "Can we go wading in the stream?"

My internal reaction was "Are you crazy? That water is barely above freezing!" But Jenny said "Isn't the water cold?" "No" was the reply. "We felt it and it is very warm."  "I'll get some towels," I said, "but you have to be careful out there. There are a lot of rocks and stones that will hurt your feet." "We will be" was the response. Zeus stayed in, a little tired after all the romping.

The bread making progressed while they were in the stream. Jenny and I formed the risen dough into circles and prepared them for the second rising. The girls were a little disappointed to have missed that part, but after taking off their wet socks, they decided to explore the house. Zeus continued to rest.

Their youthful curiosity brought them upstairs into the alcove where they found the treasure trove. First, they brought down Bob, a big overstuffed furry cat. They talked to the stuffed animal that quickly became their friend. They held its paws as they introduced him to us, and carefully set him down, near his protector Zeus, so he could watch as they painted the egg white glaze onto the breads before baking.

"Did you find the frog?" I asked. "A frog... there's a frog!" they screamed with glee, and they thundered up the stairs. We heard stomping, and then thunder as they came down the stairs, each wearing a straw hat, a Huck Finn and Pancho, with Sophie solemnly bearing the green frog on her hat. They introduced the frog to Zeus and to us.

The house was filled with the aroma of the fresh bread, and we removed it from the oven. We decided to sample one loaf because it fell apart as we were removing it from the pan...so unfortunate. We tore it apart, little chunk by little chunk, and I realized that this was the best Bucellate that I had tasted in years, and there were no dog hairs. Zeus got his crumbs.

As they were about to leave, the adoration of Zeus began. First the girls knelt next to him and imitated his pose. Then they stroked and petted him. And finally turned to him and bowed their heads to the ground. "Hail...O great Zeus" they proclaimed.

Zeus saw them to the door. He got his obeisance, and ate his food, and then some leftovers from lunch.

In retrospect, over the past several months, I had noticed occasions when the great dog seemed to have difficulty getting his legs straight. I attributed that to the cold weather. He also snored a lot. All dogs do. And his appetite, except for treats, was waning. He had been coughing, perhaps kennel cough. Swallowing was difficult the past few weeks. He didn't run back into the house the way he used to. But that night, Holy Thursday, he had a seizure that lasted several minutes. After resting, he went outside for a few minutes, and then rested and panted for about ten minutes before he settled down to the evening sleep.

I had scheduled an appointment with the vet at 11:00 the next morning, but after going outside on his usual morning routine, the regal dog rested, and again had difficulty getting up, and over the next twenty minutes, panted. As I talked to the vet on the phone at 10:00 on Good Friday, Zeus stopped breathing. He had lived for twelve years. Ten of those years, he was the protector of my daughter Meg as she walked him on the streets of Boston and New Haven. He came to me and Dan just before the birth of Khaled, now one and a half years old. He was with me when my dear wife Phyllis passed shortly after the baby was born. And he charmed Ellie and Sophie the other day, so that he had a loving send off to reign on high. Hail Zeus!


Thursday, January 16, 2014

Redistribution of wealth


CNN Money has an article about "Foreclosures hitting a six year low" emphasizing  "And it's coming at a good time as home prices rebound. 'There is unprecedented demand from institutional investors willing to pay with cash to buy at the foreclosure auction, helping to raise the value of properties with a foreclosure filing in 2013 by an average of 10% nationwide,' said Blomquist."

The winners are (no surprise) again the banks and the investors. Those who were foreclosed upon are screwed. This would be  almost 500,000 people in 2013, and the over a million in each of 2012 and 2011. And I wonder how many of the million or so long time unemployed have lost their  remaining life savings in this way.

What you have is an instance of a huge transfer of wealth from the bottom to the top. The foreclosures will sell at 10% or more than the foreclosure price. The banks will unload this "bad debt". Speculators will buy them at the beginning of a recovering market, and do well as they rehab a bit and resell. The folks who lost their homes will continue to plod along, having lost their most valuable possession with little hope of ever owning again.

Our millionaire congress people will continue to be on break, careless of the plight of their people. They passed a trillion dollar budget as they ignored the plight of the over a million and growing long term unempolyed.  Extending unemployment costs 27 billion. The amount of fraud in the process is minuscule in comparison to the cost. Pumping  27 billion into the economy so that some folks in dire straits can invest in their families, education, and a  life does not seem like too much to ask of our government.

As an offset, if that's necessary, why not raise the capital gains taxes on the 400 or so highest taxpayers who in 2007 and 2008 took a record share of capital gains during the meltdown years of the Great Recession, according to Forbes magazine. ( http://www.forbes.com/sites/janetnovack/2011/05/11/richest-400-took-record-share-of-capital-gains-during-market-meltdown-year/)

Joseph Stiglitz, a Nobel winning economist out of Columbia University, estimates the loss in revenue to our national treasury at $30 billion over these two years when the tax rate on capital gains was first reduced to 15%. (The Price of Inequality by Joseph Stiglitz, p. 72) Talk about redistribution of wealth, social programs are among the first to be cut or mitigated by our congress. That redistribution is from the poor to the rich, rather than vice versa as some would have us believe.

It is easy to say but the rich have earned it, and the poor haven't. If society is to work for all, all should contribute as they can. This asks more of the rich, who in turn profit from a great economy, and opens the door for others to move up the social ladder. Some of us near the middle of the ladder will dismiss this by saying "I did it myself." But I say, hold on there. It was  a different time, and the climate that lets you say that now is completely different. There are problems that need more attention than shifting blame to those who have lost much, if not all in the redistribution of wealth.