I served in the U.S. Army during the last years of the Cold War... I was stationed in Germany from 1989 to 1991, where I served as medic in the 7th Medical Command. Here's my Cold War story:
The week after REFORGER (a large annual military exercise in Europe during the Cold War, simulating a Soviet invasion of Germany) in 1990 (or was it 89?), I was driving an ambulance from Landstuhl to Karlsruhe. The highway was clogged with military convoys and I pulled off at a rest stop to use the restroom. I pulled in behind a small blue Opel and noticed that it had an strangely familiar license plate. Realizing where I'd seen it before, I jumped out of the ambulance and fumbled for my wallet... there, behind my 1k Zone card, Code of Conduct card and military id was my SMLM card.
SMLM's, or Soviet Military Liaison Missions, were Soviet Military observers who were allowed to observe military forces in West Germany. However, there were certain circumstances where NATO forces could detain them. U.S. Army forces were required to carry a helpful card in their wallet that identified the SMLM license plate, who to call if you saw one and described the circumstances in which they needed to be detained. As fate would have it, one of the circumstances was close proximity to military exercises (but not, as you will see on the SMLM card, on the autobahn).
As I stood in stunned silence trying to figure out I if I should try to detain him and if so, how, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Emerging from the restroom, was a smallish fellow in strange combat fatigues. Our eyes met. He saw me fumbling around with my SMLM card, staring dumbstruck at his license plate. Effortlessly lighting a cigarette, he walked briskly past me and got into his vehicle, no doubt speeding off to report to his overlords. I was left with nothing to do but phone military intelligence (their number was on the back of the SMLM card) and report his plate number.
Less than a year later, the Berlin Wall fell. Coincidence?
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Monday, February 4, 2008
Pink Sky at Night
I walked out the front door, just in time to confront an entire sky that looked like the photo above. I raced back up 2 flights of stairs to get my camera, only to find the telephoto lens was on. I didn't have time to change lenses since the pinkish/purplish light was fading by the second, so I was only able get a few close-ups. Not much visual interest... I really wanted to get the clouds and the hill line in the frame or maybe the hoist tower of the Yates Shaft from the nearby Homestake Mine.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Slashdot on the Pope
Working in information technology, I make it a point to visit slashdot, a technology news site, a couple of times a day. The subjects covered on this site are many and varied and the same can be said of the user comments attending each news item. Today, they linked to this story, in which the Pope spoke on various bio-ethical issues. Hilarity ensued. My favorite comment was this:
"First lets deal with the ridiculous: An institution whose authorities have never experienced marriage and procreation presents itself as an authority on marriage and procreation."
You could say the same of a lot of scientists and slashdot readers.
"First lets deal with the ridiculous: An institution whose authorities have never experienced marriage and procreation presents itself as an authority on marriage and procreation."
You could say the same of a lot of scientists and slashdot readers.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Backgammon
My father-in-law is a backgammon fiend. Having learned the game from him this past Thanksgiving, I was eager to play with my wife as well. I surprised to find that she did not know how, but I soon understood. I am myself the son of a highly competitive (he accused me of cheating at Candy Land when I was six) bridge player (it occupies almost all of free time), and despite the fact that my entire family plays, I do not. Fathers, it seems, often have difficulty passing on their passions.
After much cajoling, I convinced my wife to give backgammon a try. The rules were easily explained and before I knew it, we were off! Our first game was fairly bloodless... between her natural caution and my reluctance to ruin the game for her, no blots were sent to the bar and we both began bearing off at the same time. Fortune favored the cautious, apparently, because she won while I still had 5 checkers on the board.
Our next game was almost as bloodless... timidity was our by-word, but I did manage to swat one of her blots and keep it off the board for a couple of dice rolls. We both began bearing off at roughly the same time, but I'd had an extra turn or so to position my checkers in my home quadrant and, aided by some good rolling, managed to carry the day.
By this time it was late and time for bed, but I was pleased to see that she'd enjoyed the game and was looking forward to playing again!
On a side note, we'd been playing on a backgammon set I'd gotten for Christmas. It was a wooden set from Amazon that I thought would be nice. Sadly, however, the checkers are quite insubstantial and both die rolls and board jostling send the careening about like crazy. My father has a set that is fabric with leather pips, with stone checkers... I'd like to shoot for something like that.
After much cajoling, I convinced my wife to give backgammon a try. The rules were easily explained and before I knew it, we were off! Our first game was fairly bloodless... between her natural caution and my reluctance to ruin the game for her, no blots were sent to the bar and we both began bearing off at the same time. Fortune favored the cautious, apparently, because she won while I still had 5 checkers on the board.
Our next game was almost as bloodless... timidity was our by-word, but I did manage to swat one of her blots and keep it off the board for a couple of dice rolls. We both began bearing off at roughly the same time, but I'd had an extra turn or so to position my checkers in my home quadrant and, aided by some good rolling, managed to carry the day.
By this time it was late and time for bed, but I was pleased to see that she'd enjoyed the game and was looking forward to playing again!
On a side note, we'd been playing on a backgammon set I'd gotten for Christmas. It was a wooden set from Amazon that I thought would be nice. Sadly, however, the checkers are quite insubstantial and both die rolls and board jostling send the careening about like crazy. My father has a set that is fabric with leather pips, with stone checkers... I'd like to shoot for something like that.
Game Night: 221-B Baker Street
My wife absolutely adores Sherlock Holmes and this game is a particular favorite of hers. Even though I quite enjoy it, I am often loathe to play it because the game has limited shelf life, at least in terms of the number of cases available to solve.
She overcame my reluctance last night, however, and we tackled the case of the murdered inventor. We both "rolled and moved" about London and as we did, it occurred to me that, at least in two player games, starting with one each of the Scotland Yard and Skeleton Key cards is less than interesting. Because your opponent already has a Skeleton Key card, there is little incentive to place a Scotland Yard card... your opponent will, with a faint smile upon her lips, simply breeze through it as if it weren't there. You then laugh mirthlessly as you realize that you must go back to Scotland Yard if you want to try blocking another location. Why bother, you ask yourself, since your opponent will surely have the mystery solved by the time you get it. It might be an interesting variant in two player games to start off with 1 Scotland Yard card and no Skeleton Key. Or perhaps skip the cards all together.
But the game was afoot... I had scarcely entered my 4th location when I noticed that my wife was headed back to 221-B Baker Street. Good God, had she solved the case already? In fact she had, in just 4 clues!
In the post game discussion, she said that she'd taken a page out of Holmes' book and been bold with her accusations... often, in "Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective" we'd spend hours looking for proof beyond a reasonable doubt... a signed confession, a self published book by the murderer entitled "How I Did It", etc. Anybody who's read Holmes, however, knows that he will trot out the old j'accuse on the slightest scrap of evidence. Her boldness also paid off, it seems, because she had it all: motive, weapon and killer. Drat!
She overcame my reluctance last night, however, and we tackled the case of the murdered inventor. We both "rolled and moved" about London and as we did, it occurred to me that, at least in two player games, starting with one each of the Scotland Yard and Skeleton Key cards is less than interesting. Because your opponent already has a Skeleton Key card, there is little incentive to place a Scotland Yard card... your opponent will, with a faint smile upon her lips, simply breeze through it as if it weren't there. You then laugh mirthlessly as you realize that you must go back to Scotland Yard if you want to try blocking another location. Why bother, you ask yourself, since your opponent will surely have the mystery solved by the time you get it. It might be an interesting variant in two player games to start off with 1 Scotland Yard card and no Skeleton Key. Or perhaps skip the cards all together.
But the game was afoot... I had scarcely entered my 4th location when I noticed that my wife was headed back to 221-B Baker Street. Good God, had she solved the case already? In fact she had, in just 4 clues!
In the post game discussion, she said that she'd taken a page out of Holmes' book and been bold with her accusations... often, in "Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective" we'd spend hours looking for proof beyond a reasonable doubt... a signed confession, a self published book by the murderer entitled "How I Did It", etc. Anybody who's read Holmes, however, knows that he will trot out the old j'accuse on the slightest scrap of evidence. Her boldness also paid off, it seems, because she had it all: motive, weapon and killer. Drat!
Saturday, January 5, 2008
For Pete's sake
If you feel like risking your sanity, read this article by the Ochlophobist. Owen writes:
Could not the same argument be made about Byzantine Iconography?
But then again, one might begin to make suggestions that the bourgeoisie in the West have embraced baroque and folk Catholic art as perfectly acceptable. My boss, a wealthy white male who is an agnostic that reads Zen literature, keeps a poster of Our Lady of Guadalupe in the office restroom at work.
Could not the same argument be made about Byzantine Iconography?
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Shared Memory
While a novice at Holy Resurrection Monastery, I had the opportunity to meet a lot of people whose paths I would not ordinarily have crossed. The monastery attracted the mundane, the curious, the bizarre and occasionally the truly holy. The encounter with Obadiah that Arturo relates here is one of my most treasured memories from the monastery.
I remember being absolutely astounded by the thought of this man pedaling that ramshackle bicycle across 50 miles of desolate Lucerne Valley and up several thousand feet of elevation to Big Bear Lake. My spirits were at an all time low and I was just 3 or 4 months away from leaving the monastery. I knew at the bottom of my heart that my vocation, if it had ever existed at all, was on life support and I felt like a failure, that I'd let God down, that I wasn't keeping up my end of the deal. Life was miserable drudgery and I couldn't pray without weeping at the futility of it all. But as Arturo and I loaded the basket of Obadiah's bike with goods we'd baked and frozen burritos we'd microwaved, I knew that we were in the presence of something special and unexpected. To this day, I'm not sure if he was fool for Christ or an angel that we'd entertained unaware. But when I imagine what it must be like to be holy, I think of Obadiah - a man that you could see shining with the love of our risen Lord.
I remember being absolutely astounded by the thought of this man pedaling that ramshackle bicycle across 50 miles of desolate Lucerne Valley and up several thousand feet of elevation to Big Bear Lake. My spirits were at an all time low and I was just 3 or 4 months away from leaving the monastery. I knew at the bottom of my heart that my vocation, if it had ever existed at all, was on life support and I felt like a failure, that I'd let God down, that I wasn't keeping up my end of the deal. Life was miserable drudgery and I couldn't pray without weeping at the futility of it all. But as Arturo and I loaded the basket of Obadiah's bike with goods we'd baked and frozen burritos we'd microwaved, I knew that we were in the presence of something special and unexpected. To this day, I'm not sure if he was fool for Christ or an angel that we'd entertained unaware. But when I imagine what it must be like to be holy, I think of Obadiah - a man that you could see shining with the love of our risen Lord.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Great Questions of Speculative Moral Theology - Zombies
Like you, my sad and lonely reader, I find myself dwelling on the subject of zombies.
I am, of course, speaking of real zombies, not those unfortunate victims of Haitian voo-doo, doomed to a life of unending slavery and toil for their overlords, nor do I speak of those eponymous philosophical thought experiments, beings indistinguishable from normal humans but totally lacking qualia and conscious experience who exist solely to torment grad students. Real zombies... undead creatures (either by supernatural means or some virus that causes the dead rise), animated solely by their hunger for human flesh are what consume our thoughts.
Here are a few salient facts about zombies that I wish to place before us at the outset:
Bearing this in mind, I would like to speculate on some moral questions.
First, would it be sinful to kill an attacking zombie, intent on feeding on your flesh? It is quite possible that this zombie attacker is simply a human infected with some viral or bacteriological agent that drives him to kill, thus making the zombie an innocent pawn, the unwitting victim of forces beyond his control. Fortunately, St. Thomas seems to have anticipated the question:
A similar, but more difficult question, regards the licitness of suicide in the case of one's own impending zombification. Ordinarily, suicide is a shot that is not on the board of Catholic moral theology. But in this case, suicide is being considered to keep ones self from becoming a murderous fiend, an almost heroic action. However, as is apparent in many zombie movies, the unfortunate victim often considers suicide, not to save the lives of others, but to avoid the humiliation of becoming that which he would not. Here we may compare the case of Samson, who caused his own death and the death of many Philistines yet remains listed among the Saints, with the case of Razias, who takes his own life out of pride. Apparently intention is the key.
Finally, what responsibility does the zombie bear for it's actions? If truly undead, then its soul has presumably left for the here-after and is not responsible for the actions of his corpse. But if the poor soul is infected with some agent that controls his actions, the guilt for the murders committed while in this state would presumably fall under the category of involuntary sin.
I am, of course, speaking of real zombies, not those unfortunate victims of Haitian voo-doo, doomed to a life of unending slavery and toil for their overlords, nor do I speak of those eponymous philosophical thought experiments, beings indistinguishable from normal humans but totally lacking qualia and conscious experience who exist solely to torment grad students. Real zombies... undead creatures (either by supernatural means or some virus that causes the dead rise), animated solely by their hunger for human flesh are what consume our thoughts.
Here are a few salient facts about zombies that I wish to place before us at the outset:
- A zombie will, without exception, attempt to devour the living.
- Zombie-ism is contagious. A person attacked by a zombie will, invariably, become a zombie. If the person was killed by a zombie, zombification will be almost instantaneous. Persons wounded by a zombie will take longer to zombify but will, in the end, do so.
- Zombie-ism is incurable.
Bearing this in mind, I would like to speculate on some moral questions.
First, would it be sinful to kill an attacking zombie, intent on feeding on your flesh? It is quite possible that this zombie attacker is simply a human infected with some viral or bacteriological agent that drives him to kill, thus making the zombie an innocent pawn, the unwitting victim of forces beyond his control. Fortunately, St. Thomas seems to have anticipated the question:
Let us now consider another possibility, which if zombie movies are to be believed (and I don't think we can assume otherwise), is a frequent situation in zombie attacks: That is, a companion has been wounded by a zombie. This unfortunate person's zombification has yet to occur, however this wounded fellow will, at any moment, turn into a flesh eating fiend. Is it morally licit to kill this person before they try to eat your brains? There are no easy answers from St. Thomas here. In fact, he is quite silent on the question. However, I think concept of double effect is in play. Were I to kill my soon-to-be-a-zombie friend in anticipation of his change in appetites, my intention is still to save my own life, not end that of my doomed friend.
Accordingly the act of self-defense may have two effects, one is the saving of one's life, the other is the slaying of the aggressor. Therefore this act, since one's intention is to save one's own life, is not unlawful, seeing that it is natural to everything to keep itself in "being," as far as possible.
A similar, but more difficult question, regards the licitness of suicide in the case of one's own impending zombification. Ordinarily, suicide is a shot that is not on the board of Catholic moral theology. But in this case, suicide is being considered to keep ones self from becoming a murderous fiend, an almost heroic action. However, as is apparent in many zombie movies, the unfortunate victim often considers suicide, not to save the lives of others, but to avoid the humiliation of becoming that which he would not. Here we may compare the case of Samson, who caused his own death and the death of many Philistines yet remains listed among the Saints, with the case of Razias, who takes his own life out of pride. Apparently intention is the key.
Finally, what responsibility does the zombie bear for it's actions? If truly undead, then its soul has presumably left for the here-after and is not responsible for the actions of his corpse. But if the poor soul is infected with some agent that controls his actions, the guilt for the murders committed while in this state would presumably fall under the category of involuntary sin.
Ochlophobist 451
When I first read this post I had what Owen would call "book egalitarian" reaction. Most of my adolescence had been spent in what I considered then to be an heroic battle against the forces of puritanism embodied by my parents. Certain books and records had been confiscated, various movies forbidden, MTV not allowed. In short, my parents were doing all they could to raise a son in what is surely one of the most depressing and soul destroying cultural milieus ever.
I could not see this, of course. Like many who read Bradbury's novel, I came away convinced that book burning, censorship, etc, were pretty much the worst things ever and they would be the first order of business if people like my parents ever got in charge. That it was the Reagan era and people like my folks already were in charge escaped me.
But now, with the perspective that only time can bring, I can understand what my parents were trying to do. If my child comes home with the 21st century equivalent of this or this
* you will find me in the back yard firing up the Weber.
* UPDATE: Originally, I included a link to this book by John Romanides to be among the items grilled on the Weber. A reader (I'd forgotten that I had any!) pointed out that this was perhaps not charitable. I stand by my assertion that the book in question is, for all practical purposes (except that of kindling) worthless, but it isn't fair to Romanides, who no doubt meant well, to include him in the company of Iron Maiden and Judas Priest.
I could not see this, of course. Like many who read Bradbury's novel, I came away convinced that book burning, censorship, etc, were pretty much the worst things ever and they would be the first order of business if people like my parents ever got in charge. That it was the Reagan era and people like my folks already were in charge escaped me.
But now, with the perspective that only time can bring, I can understand what my parents were trying to do. If my child comes home with the 21st century equivalent of this or this
* you will find me in the back yard firing up the Weber.
* UPDATE: Originally, I included a link to this book by John Romanides to be among the items grilled on the Weber. A reader (I'd forgotten that I had any!) pointed out that this was perhaps not charitable. I stand by my assertion that the book in question is, for all practical purposes (except that of kindling) worthless, but it isn't fair to Romanides, who no doubt meant well, to include him in the company of Iron Maiden and Judas Priest.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Jussi Bjorling - Greatest Tenor Ever!
Jussi Bjorling singing the phone book is a thousand times more compelling than the work of any modern male vocal talent, save perhaps Bryn Terfel.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Amahl and the Night Visitors
I'll be honest, Menotti is not my favorite composer. I've seen a production of "The Old Maid and the Thief", which struck me as inane (though not as inane as "The Barber of Seville") and I own a copy of "The Medium" (the mezzo on the cover of the linked recording, Joyce Castle, was my wife's voice teacher while she was earning her doctrate) which does little to move me.
Yet I find myself really liking "Amahl and the Night Visitors" despite the bitchiness of Amahl's mother and the preposterous aria "This is my Box". The first Christmas television special to become a traditional favorite, it aired on Christmas eve from 1951 to 1956 on NBC. A far cry from "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer" and "Nestor the Long Eared Christmas Donkey!"
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
The True Church (TM)
A week or so ago, I asked a friend to take a look at the Ochlophobist's remarks on the recent events at Ravenna. His first question to me, after reading the post, was "Are you going to 'dox'?" A mirthless laugh passed my lips. "I've given up trying to find the true church," I said.
Being an Eastern Catholic is often a depressing enterprise. In my few years as a communicant, I've seen a microscopic parish split in bitter internecine warfare. I've seen a vibrant monastery hounded out of its own Eparchy by a clueless chancery. I've seen liturgies where even the clergy seemed to have no idea of what was going on. Why, I often wondered, did I even bother showing up?
There was time, a few years ago, when the thought of dox-ing was attractive. No more nagging doubts about Popes. No more frustration with what I perceived to be lax praxis. No more re-arranging of the deck chairs on the iceberg. If I were Orthodox, I thought, I could just go to church on Sunday and not worry.
Sharing these thoughts with a trusted advisor, he recommended that I spend more time among the Orthodox. As I did so, I saw a mirror image of the Church I was already in... parishes obsessed with ethnic concerns from the old world, clueless celebrants muddling their way through liturgies, petty divisions. In the affair d'Estonia in 1993, I saw a hierarchy just as obsessed with power as Jack Chick's wettest dream.
It is only because of the vagaries of time and space that I even have the luxury of considering the question of the true church and where it might be found. There wasn't a "St. Joseph Catholic Community" down the street in some village in Asia Minor 1500 years ago or "Sts. Boris and Gleb ROCOR Parish" in the next town over in medieval France. Until very recently, nobody even had to worry about the question. You just went to church.
In the end I decided that I would just have to hope that God would not make my salvation contingent on unraveling a 1000 year old spat between East and West. I'm not smart enough to figure it out. I don't know who is. So, I've given up trying to find the True Church (TM). I shall fight no more forever. To paraphrase the monks of the Holy Mountain, Uniatism or death!
Being an Eastern Catholic is often a depressing enterprise. In my few years as a communicant, I've seen a microscopic parish split in bitter internecine warfare. I've seen a vibrant monastery hounded out of its own Eparchy by a clueless chancery. I've seen liturgies where even the clergy seemed to have no idea of what was going on. Why, I often wondered, did I even bother showing up?
There was time, a few years ago, when the thought of dox-ing was attractive. No more nagging doubts about Popes. No more frustration with what I perceived to be lax praxis. No more re-arranging of the deck chairs on the iceberg. If I were Orthodox, I thought, I could just go to church on Sunday and not worry.
Sharing these thoughts with a trusted advisor, he recommended that I spend more time among the Orthodox. As I did so, I saw a mirror image of the Church I was already in... parishes obsessed with ethnic concerns from the old world, clueless celebrants muddling their way through liturgies, petty divisions. In the affair d'Estonia in 1993, I saw a hierarchy just as obsessed with power as Jack Chick's wettest dream.
It is only because of the vagaries of time and space that I even have the luxury of considering the question of the true church and where it might be found. There wasn't a "St. Joseph Catholic Community" down the street in some village in Asia Minor 1500 years ago or "Sts. Boris and Gleb ROCOR Parish" in the next town over in medieval France. Until very recently, nobody even had to worry about the question. You just went to church.
In the end I decided that I would just have to hope that God would not make my salvation contingent on unraveling a 1000 year old spat between East and West. I'm not smart enough to figure it out. I don't know who is. So, I've given up trying to find the True Church (TM). I shall fight no more forever. To paraphrase the monks of the Holy Mountain, Uniatism or death!
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Who the hell am I?
It was never my intention to write about religion on this blog. I did my bit as a religion blogger years ago and found it ultimately unhelpful in my spiritual growth. So, I've contented myself in these later years with reading religion blogs, all the while remarking to myself how glad I was to get off that treadmill. Self congratulatory thoughts about how I'd risen above pointless Internet theological contretemps and argumentation without end were my bread and butter. I was better than that, I thought.
But as it is our common destiny to become that which we most loath, I now find myself blogging about religion. Which means that I owe you, my sad and lonely reader, some explanations.
I am Catholic, having swum the Monongahela in 2002 to enter into blessed union with the See of Pittsburgh. I spent nearly two years as a novice in a small monastery in the Mojave desert, along with a certain other blogger. After watching my vocation incinerate at 450 degrees in an industrial baking oven, I returned to the world with most of the wounds I brought to the monastery completely healed by the grace of God and the love of the monks, whom I will treasure as brothers for the rest of my life. The inevitable nicks and abrasions suffered in religious life are now distant memories and I ache for my lost vocation only occasionally, as if it were a phantom limb.
But as it is our common destiny to become that which we most loath, I now find myself blogging about religion. Which means that I owe you, my sad and lonely reader, some explanations.
I am Catholic, having swum the Monongahela in 2002 to enter into blessed union with the See of Pittsburgh. I spent nearly two years as a novice in a small monastery in the Mojave desert, along with a certain other blogger. After watching my vocation incinerate at 450 degrees in an industrial baking oven, I returned to the world with most of the wounds I brought to the monastery completely healed by the grace of God and the love of the monks, whom I will treasure as brothers for the rest of my life. The inevitable nicks and abrasions suffered in religious life are now distant memories and I ache for my lost vocation only occasionally, as if it were a phantom limb.
The Ochlophobist on factory wafers.
First, read this.
It is probably just as well that Owen shut down the comments... Arturo's stalker showed up which meant a future of nothing but non sequiturs and Dr. Dre references. But Owen made a final comment to me that I feel compelled to address. I reproduce his remarks below:
"very well then, this phrase perfectly captures the ethos of big box praxis."
I'm not sure what he means by this. I was simply suggesting that the fact that there are lots and lots and lots of Catholics in many of places and that it is often necessary to build bigger houses of worship to accommodate them all.
"...that general condescending attitude of RCs..."
This is truly rich. Catholics have, in general, a condescending attitude, says the man for whom, it sometimes seems, the Catholic Church can do no right, this bread obsession being only the latest example. Well, when you hate someone, the way they use their fork infuriates you. When you like someone, the way they lick their plate is charming.
"In suggesting as much, you unwittingly suggest that the origin and type of what is in the Cup (for Orthodox, in the hand or tongue for RCs) is not substantially more important that the origin and type of what is the mop bucket."
First of all, I don't believe it is possible to "unwittingly suggest" anything. Attempting to indicate a natural connection of ideas without plain expression would require far more wit than I posses and, were I even to attempt such a feat, I doubt I could do it unconsciously. I will leave aside the horrific insinuation that I actually believe that what is in the Cup is not more important than what is in the mop bucket, but I do dispute the notion that the way in which Catholic communion wafers are made somehow diminishes them.
Wheat does not plant itself or harvest itself, folks, even if it is no longer done by an army of serfs equiped with scythes but instead by a single farmer on a big John Deer rig (also made by humans). Somebody laid the tracks the carried the train to the grain elevator. Another fellow came up with the idea for whatever automation is at work in the bakery. No babies were sacrificed, no deals with the devil were made (though I'm sure Owen will insist otherwise).
"[I] refuse to believe that they could not handle making their own wafers on a parish level, though perhaps some difficulty in the effort might help sway what many conservative Catholics believe is an overly frequent Communion practice in AmChurch"
Owen insists that the level of production required to supply many large Catholic parishes with bread is available in the kitchen of the local rank and file. Well, if he says so, I guess. He goes on to suggest, wittingly I presume, that it might be all for the best if the last few communicants in line were turned away from the table. Nice.
What I was suggesting by my "Floor Wax" comment is that Owen seems determined to loathe the Catholic Church (here we may insert his standard comment about his many Catholic friends) and as far as he's concerned, "sucks to them". If the Red Sox were the official baseball team of the Vatican, he'd be a Yankee fan. If Catholics drink Coke, he'd be a Pepsi man. If Pope Benedict shouted "Great Taste!", he'd yell "Less Filling!". And no doubt he'd be full of incredibly well articulated justifications, all based in theology and orthopraxy, for each of these opinions.
For the record, let me say in advance that I am not suggesting anything else about baseball, soft drinks or Miller Lite.
It is probably just as well that Owen shut down the comments... Arturo's stalker showed up which meant a future of nothing but non sequiturs and Dr. Dre references. But Owen made a final comment to me that I feel compelled to address. I reproduce his remarks below:
Sean,
"which is really a function of demographics, not theology"
- very well then, this phrase perfectly captures the ethos of big box praxis.
Eastern Rites do sometimes tend to join the bandwagon suggesting that the EOC is to small to be The Church, etc. One can be so small and be part of the Church, but not The Church, etc., following that general condescending attitude of RCs that Orthodox claims to be the One Church of Christ are quaint. A barking poodle, to use one (canonically) Eastern Catholic’s choice of terms.
"The Errors of the Latins and their Floor Waxes"
Here is the suggestion that the polemical target of this post, Mcwafers, is as arbitrary a target as what one finds in RC mop buckets. In suggesting as much, you unwittingly suggest that the origin and type of what is in the Cup (for Orthodox, in the hand or tongue for RCs) is not substantially more important that the origin and type of what is the mop bucket. This is exactly the inclination that a Mcwafer ecclesiological culture breeds. For if in that very thing that is most important to us we use something that is cheaply and inhumanly made (when we have and could use something else – and seeing the extraordinary works that Catholics routinely do on all number of fronts I refuse to believe that they could not handle making their own wafers on a parish level, though perhaps some difficulty in the effort might help sway what many conservative Catholics believe is an overly frequent Communion practice in AmChurch), is from an arbitrary or exchangeable source, as it were, is in its packaged form a product easily disposed of (which no one will miss because no one made it, certainly not the person who might throw it away on the parish level if its gets past the expiration date), and has been marketed by those who bask in their increased market share and market dominance, then, my friend, we have essentially affirmed that the whole cosmos is a mop bucket.
"very well then, this phrase perfectly captures the ethos of big box praxis."
I'm not sure what he means by this. I was simply suggesting that the fact that there are lots and lots and lots of Catholics in many of places and that it is often necessary to build bigger houses of worship to accommodate them all.
"...that general condescending attitude of RCs..."
This is truly rich. Catholics have, in general, a condescending attitude, says the man for whom, it sometimes seems, the Catholic Church can do no right, this bread obsession being only the latest example. Well, when you hate someone, the way they use their fork infuriates you. When you like someone, the way they lick their plate is charming.
"In suggesting as much, you unwittingly suggest that the origin and type of what is in the Cup (for Orthodox, in the hand or tongue for RCs) is not substantially more important that the origin and type of what is the mop bucket."
First of all, I don't believe it is possible to "unwittingly suggest" anything. Attempting to indicate a natural connection of ideas without plain expression would require far more wit than I posses and, were I even to attempt such a feat, I doubt I could do it unconsciously. I will leave aside the horrific insinuation that I actually believe that what is in the Cup is not more important than what is in the mop bucket, but I do dispute the notion that the way in which Catholic communion wafers are made somehow diminishes them.
Wheat does not plant itself or harvest itself, folks, even if it is no longer done by an army of serfs equiped with scythes but instead by a single farmer on a big John Deer rig (also made by humans). Somebody laid the tracks the carried the train to the grain elevator. Another fellow came up with the idea for whatever automation is at work in the bakery. No babies were sacrificed, no deals with the devil were made (though I'm sure Owen will insist otherwise).
"[I] refuse to believe that they could not handle making their own wafers on a parish level, though perhaps some difficulty in the effort might help sway what many conservative Catholics believe is an overly frequent Communion practice in AmChurch"
Owen insists that the level of production required to supply many large Catholic parishes with bread is available in the kitchen of the local rank and file. Well, if he says so, I guess. He goes on to suggest, wittingly I presume, that it might be all for the best if the last few communicants in line were turned away from the table. Nice.
What I was suggesting by my "Floor Wax" comment is that Owen seems determined to loathe the Catholic Church (here we may insert his standard comment about his many Catholic friends) and as far as he's concerned, "sucks to them". If the Red Sox were the official baseball team of the Vatican, he'd be a Yankee fan. If Catholics drink Coke, he'd be a Pepsi man. If Pope Benedict shouted "Great Taste!", he'd yell "Less Filling!". And no doubt he'd be full of incredibly well articulated justifications, all based in theology and orthopraxy, for each of these opinions.
For the record, let me say in advance that I am not suggesting anything else about baseball, soft drinks or Miller Lite.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Yesterday and Today
Yesterday afternoon, I bugged out early and went to Spearfish to attend a recital at BHSU, given by some of Nancy's students. All were good, but there was a particularly beautiful setting of Psalm 23 by Dvorak that I really liked.
Afterwards, Nan and I drove back to Lead, in preparation for the concluding class of Basic Obedience. Brynn was doing really well until it was time to go off leash for recall training. She got distracted by a giant nerf football and we had to spend what seemed like hours trying to catch her. Tracy gave us some tips to deal with that situation that seem like they might help.
Afterwards, Nan and I drove back to Lead, in preparation for the concluding class of Basic Obedience. Brynn was doing really well until it was time to go off leash for recall training. She got distracted by a giant nerf football and we had to spend what seemed like hours trying to catch her. Tracy gave us some tips to deal with that situation that seem like they might help.
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