A Post, Finally

So what it's ten pm on the night before clinical? I'm gonna write a blog post, since I haven't done that in like a bizillion years.

I actually made a New Year's Resolution this year; after my usual fashion of waiting until two weeks post-New Year's. I thought I'd blogged it, but apparently not.

This year I resolve to learn assertiveness. I've spent too long being passive or passive aggressive and bottling everything all up until I burst out in anger or absorb a bunch of disappointment and hurt over things that I never told anyone I wanted for fear of rejection in the first place. My depressed thoughts have got DYSFUNCTIONAL and MALADAPTIVE written all over them.

I plan to learn to say, "No," when I can't do something, instead of sort of mumbling about it and ending up over-committed.

I plan to learn to tell my loved ones when I would like them to do something, instead of hinting, vaguely hoping that they'll notice, and feeling disappointed and guilty when they don't.

I plan to learn to take responsibility for my own actions, behavior, and feelings, without taking responsibility for others' actions, behavior, and feelings which are beyond my vocation or control.

I plan to learn to appropriately confront people with whom I have a conflict instead of talking about the conflict with everyone but them.

I plan to learn to address problems to the appropriate authority, with proposed solutions, instead of bemoaning the problem, my helplessness and frustration.

I plan to learn to eliminate false, self-injuring, 'automatic thoughts' which tear down my self-image and destroy the joy God has given me in who He has made me to be. I additionally plan to learn to put the best construction on the words and actions of my family, friends, colleagues and supervisors at work and school, rather than allowing myself to become more and more insecure by assuming negative connotations.

I plan to learn to stop making self-deprecation my automatic fall-back when others give me attention, reduce discomfort by other methods, and learn to appropriately respond to compliments.

I plan to learn to prevent myself from becoming tense and anxious whenever I anticipate my parents, teachers, and other authorities observing and evaluating behavior on my part that they have not specifically sanctioned. (E.g. There's no reason I should get a pounding headache, almost burst into tears, and feel extremely guilty and trapped when an authority says they wish to talk to me about something, when a parent hears me singing a new folk song, or a fellow student corrects a minor mistake in a clinical technique.)

And so the list goes on. Some of these non-assertive, pathological thoughts and behaviors have grown with me since childhood. Some have emerged insidiously since the onset of adolescence or the beginning of nursing school. I do not want these dysfunctional processes to control or define me.

I want to be a self-disciplined, self-controlled, self-aware Christian woman who can use her body, mind, and behavior consciously and deliberately in service to her neighbor within her vocation. To this end I make my resolution, petitioning the aide of Almighty God, who does not abandon me even when I feel irrationally alone and excessively guilty, but who strengthens and upholds me and will preserve even my fragile mind to life everlasting, along with my body and soul.

Picture Panel Explained

For a while I've wanted to comment briefly on the panel I've placed at the top of my blog. Like many other things, that's been pushed to the very back burner while I'm pursuing education and whatnot. Tonight, I find an opportunity. Perhaps I could make better use of my time working on a research paper, but I'll lay that scruple aside for now and let myself enjoy writing for pleasure once again.

When I first made my blog, I wanted the title and description to say something about me and my intent for this blog. I wanted the title to reflect that the thoughts I here write, while often important to me, are not a matter of dogma nor would I refuse to be pursuaded contrary to them. Some posts are for fun and are therefore useful but not essential. Some posts are principles, observations, ruminations, and ramblings - non of these would I hold to adamantly. My writing is part of my thought, but not my essential identity. Hence I deemed it fit to title the blog, "The Adiaphoron".

When I began my blog, I did so in hopes that by writing for fun and by writing things I could not immediately express in conversation, I might be able to get to know myself better. I might be able to read back and get an idea of what I, the inward person looked like when turned inside out. Writing has always helped me get a handle on myself, and for a year or so The Adiaphoron served that purpose very nicely. Now things are altered - but that's another post. All this is to say that the quote from "The Scarlet Pimpernel" simply signifies that I sought to peep closer at that complex problem which is my own female heart through my writing.

Now for the panel. I included pictures because of what they symbolized to me. The first painting on the right,"On a Sailboat", was painted by Caspar David Friedrich, one of my favorite Romantic painters. We talked at length about this piece during one of our art lectures at Augustine. Dr. Tingley pointed out that the couple is sitting on a boat together. They are not sailing the boat per se, but the boat is carrying them. Unlike so many depictions of lovers, these two are not looking at one another, but at a point in the distance toward which they travel, toward which the boat is carrying them. It is a city. A golden city. In a larger picture, one can see that the city is lit up as if either glowing from within or as if the sun is setting behind it. Whether the artist intended it or not, to me (as to Dr. Tingley) this painting is an allegory of the kind of marriage I want to have. A union where both spouses are joined by a common journey to a common eternal destination, carried by the single boat of the holy church.

The next image is Luther's Seal. You friends of mine know that my confession is that of the Holy Scriptures and the Lutheran Confessions. It was through my Lutheran fathers that the weight of the Gospel of forgiveness and peace first impacted my soul and pierced it through, bringing joy and comfort. Christ is foremost and a faithful confession of Him paramount to my life and practice, though I fall short in action. This picture symbolizes my confession of Christ crucified for my sins and free forgiveness by His resurrection. It reminds me that I have sworn to retain this confession unto death.

The next photo is of a group of my baby goats from several years ago. It's hard to explain to people who have only known me for the past few years, but my herd was a lynch-pin of my life for over a decade of my life. I grew it from one goat to twenty or more at one time, managed them in health, cared for them in sickness, grieved them in death, and competed with them in many shows. When one feeds an animal twice daily, milks it as often, and grows up with it, one loves it with a bond seldom formed between creatures. My goats were my children, my "bitties". Though I've not really consistently been a goat-herdess for two and a half years now, my herd was foundational to who I am now, my experience, and my character.

The picture of the the parchment with the heart and cross drawn upon it and the words, "Dieu Le Roi" I chose for somewhat obscure reasons. I found this image on a Wikipedia page treating the La Vendee resistance and massacres (as I have written elsewhere on this blog). La Vendee is the French province that refused to surrender their priests or provide soldiers to the Parisian Committee of Public Safety during the French Revolution. They clung to their nobility as well. When they resisted the Revolutionary Government, the entire population was brutally murdered. The fragment in the picture above states, "God is King" - a dangerously politically incorrect statement for the time and place. I first heard of La Vendee while reading G.A. Henty's boy's series. (Excellent works for the most part; I hope to write on them at some point.) G.A. Henty greatly influenced both my understanding of history and my moral development. (I've several shelves worth of his books and read them all; some twice or more.) It is as much because of his influence as because of my admiration for the Vendeans' piety and courage that I place this picture on my blog.

The next image is one I found when looking for artistic (not movie) depictions of Eowyn (LOTR). As many of you know, I used to (and still do to a lesser extent) strongly identify with Tolkien's character of Theoden's "sister-daughter". From the beginning of my fascination with Tolkien's works, I was awed by the insight with which Tolkien crafted Eowyn. I felt as if at last at I had found a male author who understood the female psyche. But that aside, the picture above depicts Gandalf, Aragorn, and Eomer around Eowyn's bed. Aragorn, in his office as the king-who-heals has literally brought Eowyn back from the dead with the "common" herb athelas which those esteemed wise treated as of little worth. Those who have only seen the movie completely miss the dialogue of Aragorn, Eomer, and Gandalf about Eowyn and the pathology of her condition. Read the book. It's beautiful. Eowyn has raised her eyes and set her heart on being what she is not, in a place not meant for her. She is restless with what she sees as her helpless femininity entrapping, caging her capabilities and spirit. When she finds and finally understands love, she is at rest. No more must she be a shield maiden and long to fight and kill and die, but she will "be a healer and love all things that grow and are not barren."

The next image - I'm sure there's a name for it, but I don't remember. But obviously, it shows Christ holding out His Body and Blood "for us Christians to eat and to drink". These are my life and salvation, my consummation yet here on earth. My life, the culmination of a week of prayer, and guilt, and the shame that threatens my sense of identity and worth. Before this Presence my fear would hang my head and plead for mercy, but Christ gives His gifts for peace and not fear. He has absolved me already, though my heart forgets or does not grasp it. Here, no matter what my fear or confidence, He loves me with a love that overwhelms any doubt and fear. "Here. I give my body to you." No mention of my sin or failures or my half-hearted devotion. The God of the Universe encounters me and instead of condemning He embraces me. "What sin do you have? My blood is for the forgiveness of your sin."

The last painting is also one that I encountered in my Augustine "Art in Western Culture" course, though I don't remember actually talking about it at the time. I think I looked it up later. It's called "Domine Quo Vadis", Latin for "Lord, where are you going?" Tradition has it (according to Wikipedia) that Peter fleeing from probable crucifixion in Rome met Jesus and put Him this question. "I'm going to Rome to be crucified again" came the response which turned Peter around in his tracks and sent him back to martyrdom. Sometimes "Domine, quo vadis" is the cry of my heart as well, "Lord, I don't understand. This isn't the way to do things. This doesn't make any sense. Where are you going?" My Lord didn't say that following Him would make sense or wouldn't hurt. But He goes before me. He's done it all before and I can trust Him, even when it looks to me like I'm only trudging along the procession of the condemned to crucifixion.

Anyway, that's the panel. Oh! I suppose I could mention Joan of Arc on the sidelines down there. She doesn't make it into the panel because I'm not really sure about her. (Material for another blog post someday.) She was one of my childhood heroes and I'm 99% positive that she was a faithful Christian. (She makes a good confession anyway.) What exactly she heard speaking to her, I'm not sure of. (Like I said, more later, hopefully.) But the lass had spunk, and religiously driven spunk too. She did hard things, changed people's lives, and changed the course of history without political background or aspirations. There's something that attracts me about courageous women who are not afraid to do what needs to be done. That's why she's on my blog. More of a symbol of female bravery for me than of the historical Joan.

I'm up too late again. Why do I do this on nights before church? Late or not, it's nice to write again. Maybe God will grant me time to do more blogging in the future. For now, so long, dear reader.

Mental Nausea

We've all been nauseated before. It usually happens when one's about 9 years old and has just eaten Thanksgiving. You eat turkey like a pig, and then try to fit in apple pie on top of three piece of pumpkin and whipped cream. Finally, you look at the fruited pastry in you spoon and feel repulsion and a little bit of remorse. You think to yourself, "Why?" You realize that consuming half the turkey and one piece of pie would have given you greater pleasure. Now all that food is in your belly and you've got to let it sit there. After a couple hours you'll be able to sit up, run around, sing, and laugh again. But for now, all you feel is overload.

I've got the brain nausea. My head feels like vomiting, but it can't. There's too much going into it. "Don't cram," they tell me, "don't cram." But what else can one do when one has 15 chapters of reading and two papers due a week on average and must progress in group projects, independent clinical assessment study, and group research papers too? So I sit down with my text book and read for hours till the page swims. Then I go "work out" or hike while listening to my prof's lectures I've recorded.

It'll get better. Eventually, I'll digest and the pressure will diminish. But meanwhile when I say stupid things, or look at you blankly, or lash out senselessly, or burst into tears unreasonably, hold me accountable but forgive me. I am cognizant that I've a pretty easy life: I've parents who love me and each other, a home with electricity and running water, a church with pastors of high theological and liturgical caliber, food on the table, opportunity for education, a healthy body, employment, love. But I am weak and in my weakness, I am ashamed of my weakness. I am ashamed that you should see me in the nausea of my mind. When my wits return I wish that I could take back whatever I've said or done in the pitching and tossing of thought and word and deed.

It would be nice to be normal for a change, but it would be even nice to feel normal. I don't know that I remember in what "normal" consists.

Phone Calls and Such

Has anyone seen Veith's post on phone conversations? Thought provoking.

I admit to feeling embarrassed calling specific people. Most of the embarrassment, though, seems to stem from a fear of being annoying or unwanted. I am alright with business calls, for the most part. One is expected to call about business, to straighten out one's affairs, and then to hang up. It's straightforward and no one objects. I enjoy getting personal calls, even though I'm often stilted, stammering and awkward on the phone. Personal-social calls tell me that the caller cares a lot. I mean, a TON. (It takes effort to carve out time for a call, and effort to maintain a conversation. It takes courage to reach out across the invisible miles to the unseen other and poke him/her in the shoulder. "Hey! Talk to me a bit. Please.")

Don't get me wrong. I like email. I appreciate email for the very reasons that at times I prefer phone conversations to email. With email one can precisely formulate one's words with deliberation, while phone conversations necessarily disallow deliberation. With email, one has a copy of what was said and can review the message at will to reassure one's self of the content and sender's meaning. With verbal messages, the words are distorted through memory. With email one has the opportunity to say much without interruption - to paint a landscape that takes concentration. A conversation necessarily involves a back and forth, a give and take. With email I personally am less inclined to hold back what I wish to talk about for fear that the other doesn't want to hear it. In a phone conversation or face to face conversation, I feel rude if I talk of myself uninvited, or talk long. The insidious little voice in my ear whispers that it doesn't really matter to anyone but me anyway - the listener is probably smiling and nodding politely with closed ear and thoughts afar. I could babble as well as any, but when I do, it leaves me feeling the emptier and more foolish because there is seldom a response that indicates anything other than the polite listener. Those who ask more, who draw me out, who respond genuinely, give me the best gift any humans have and I love them with a sinner's love (Even the pagans love those who love them). Among these are my father.

To sum up, I like phone calls because they are risky, unchoreographed, and pure grace. One must remember them in faith. I like email because I can control it, prepare it, return to it for (relative) certainty, and participate with low risk of rejection. Phone calls are dangerous because they put you in direct contact with another human being, their ambitions, aspirations, vocations, loves, hates, moods, babbling. Emails buffer you from all these things and put you in contact only with a mind - an almost disembodied mind - that can deal with you coolly as and when it will in a disembodied and removed manner.

As in the days of my infancy, blood and gore are more beautiful than unruffled clothes. The rag doll is more exciting than the stiff china maid. The fragile china makes one tingle with delight, while the disposable paper plate does not.

No Girl Left Behind: some initial thoughts

Ok guys, so I'm gullible. It's one of my lesser, but more dangerous delinquencies. Earlier today, I was directed to this website and being the aforementioned gullible person, took it mostly seriously, and seriously engaged it in a blogwritten argument. About 10 minutes from completion of this 2 hour blogpost, I found I was sticking pins in a chimera: it melted, leaving a pile of pins. Having spent two hours on it, I figured I'd let you see the pins, before I sweep them up.

I'll admit, when I first read it, it struck me as a tad incredible, but I believe in taking people seriously, when they appear serious. If they turn out to be joking, I've only enlarged the joke. Hence what follows.


What I write here is preliminary: some quick reactionary thoughts after skimming this website. But I think there is more in this topic worth discussing.

Will the reader be pleased to peruse the writing upon this site as the discussion below doth pertain thereto: http://nogirlleftbehind.99k.org/

Many of the statements and lines of reasoning followed on this site make me nod and say, "I know exactly what you are talking about. I can see it. I watch it regularly in friends I love."

More than half of my close personal friends who are greater than 5 years my senior are unmarried - none of them from choice. Male and female. I know the females more intimately and have heard their longing for love, for a family, for children. (Almost every girl experiences these feelings for some period, age aside. I am no stranger to these.) Some of us have talked at length about how this comes about - that a number of Christian women are waiting for husbands who never come, while a number of young Christian men fool about or wait for the "perfect woman" who doesn't exist.

I've wondered to myself - what is the answer? Is there one in this earth? Shall we "leave the matter" to the hands of God? But are not His hands on earth, human hands? The hands of fathers, pastors, family, friends?

So, I am sympathetic, yea, even tentatively in favor of proposed arrangements as I read down the list of "Things You Can Do". But a few notes of the site strike a discord in my soul and unease in my mind.

1st. The treating of marriage as a "right".

No one has a "right" to marriage. If there is any such thing as a "right" (I admit to conflicting thoughts about "rights", not to be discussed here), then surely it is something that is universal to all in a set (eg, a human right is universal to the set of all humans)and the absence of it (the right) is an evil which denies the member of the set a part of her nature. To say that all humans ought to be free from ownership by another human is one thing: to say that all women ought to be married is another. God gives some to be eunuchs for the kingdom of God. (Matthew 19:12) The one who can accept marriage, should, Christ says; yet Paul apparently did not marry and speaks to the Corinthians of the ways in which the celibate may serve the church even more vigorously. To say that all women have a right to marriage is to say that to live singly as a women is to be less of a woman, to which all Christians must cry, "error".

Further, marriage is a gift, not a right. Yes, first it is a gift of God. But it is also a mutual gift between husband and wife. It is beautiful because it is grace, undeserved love, promise. Now, if it is by right (or merit) it is no longer by promise (or grace). Where would the tenderness be if a woman could say to a man, "It is my right that you love me. By right, I require you to die for me everyday in everyway." It is absurd, but when one says, "all young women are naturally entitled to marriage" (I quote from the site linked above) that is what they are saying. It could as well be rendered, "all young women are naturally entitled to have a fellow human being lay down his life for them". But the reality is more like the reverse: It is the precious responsibility of every young man to lay down his life for the neighbor Christ gives him, and the closest neighbor is his wife, whom God gives him because it is not good for him to be alone. No human deserves love of himself or herself, but is made lovable and loved by God as a gift; loved through humans and by humans as a precious gift of God and man. God grants us to be like himself in the giving of this love. To treat marriage as a "right" of a young woman robs the young woman of the astounding joy of unmerited love. And it robs young men of the only truly God-like gift they can give their wife (other than forgiveness).

2. Where did the chain of command fly off to? Hello! When it comes to "what you can do" to help solve the problem of unwedded matrimonially aspiring maids, we see an array of advice bewilderingly out of keeping with biblical precedent. Sure, talk to your friends if you want. Blog if you want. Raise awareness if you have time, energy, and an iron to burn. But please, please, don't get the government involved. The bill mentioned just about makes me ill. Why are we going to the Gentile courts? Have we not competency to judge these matters in the church of God? The only truly sensible piece of advice on this 'action' page is communication with your pastor - but in the misguided form of "harangue".

If anyone should be consulted, any external body employed in correcting a problem of unweddedness, it should be parents and the church. Parents are given the governance of their children till they reach adulthood. Even after majority, a father who carries out his vocation will remain a protecting, guiding head for his unmarried daughter. This includes helping her to find a spouse if marriage is what daughter and father discern is her vocation. If a girl's father has died, a mother or brother may well facilitate this process. Failing this, or if family is uninvolved, or in addition to family, a girl should have recourse to her church in matters of marriage. In a more hierarchical church structure (by which I intend the type of liturgical/sacramental church in which a girl's clergy is [or should be] a close spiritual father to her, this can be a matter of personal guidance, advice, and activism by that father. In a less hierarchical setting (for example, numerous nondenominational churches)there are plenty of mature Christian couples who could take a girl under their wing and seek a husband for her if necessary. Mayhap church leadership would need to assign a fostering parent set to a girl, but there are ways these things could be arranged within any church.

3. Rights become Force.

But the idea of "external pressure" (I quote) to "force marriages" (I quote again) is a more grievous violation of human rights than any so-called "right to marriage". These phrases show clearly how warped the American idea of "rights" has become: If you have a right, we will force you to claim it. You must be married, whether you like it or not. It is like as to saying, "You have a right to freedom of speech. Therefore, if you will not express your political opinions, we will put you in jail."


4. The Government as Enforcer

To place the enforcement of rules coercing matrimony in the hands of the state is a recipe for disaster as well as a travesty. I'm sorry, the Bill is stupid from start to finish. Those of you who know me know that I never use the word "stupid", because it indicates a sort of brainlessness. But I do believe this whole thing demonstrates a remarkable failure of the speculative intellect. I sense that a point by point rebuttal would be a slap in the face to my readers' intelligences.

Indeed, it is at this point that I felt a bit mocked myself, just reading the piece.

************************************************************************

I realize that this website may be satirical, a farce, or a joke. Nevertheless, the satire is so perfect and comical because the topic is serious. So, I don't consider the exercise of writing this post wasted, though I critique a paper man. The paper man is a caricature of a real one, and like all caricatures, the features are exaggerated, but not fabricated. Thus, there are real concerns which I could only think about clearly by meeting their ultimate hyperbolic incarnations. But my reasoning is the better for encountering them, fencing with them, and being humiliated by their vaporization.

Be gentle: I'm gullible.

Paschal Homily of St. John Chrysostom.

If anyone is devout and a lover of God, let them enjoy this beautiful and radiant festival.
If anyone is a grateful servant, let them, rejoicing, enter into the joy of his Lord.
If anyone has wearied themselves in fasting, let them now receive recompense.
If anyone has labored from the first hour, let them today receive the just reward.
If anyone has come at the third hour, with thanksgiving let them feast.
If anyone has arrived at the sixth hour, let them have no misgivings; for they shall suffer no loss.
If anyone has delayed until the ninth hour, let them draw near without hesitation.
If anyone has arrived even at the eleventh hour, let them not fear on account of tardiness.
For the Master is gracious and receives the last even as the first; he gives rest to him that comes at the eleventh hour, just as to him who has labored from the first.
He has mercy upon the last and cares for the first; to the one he gives, and to the other he is gracious.
He both honors the work and praises the intention.
Enter all of you, therefore, into the joy of our Lord, and, whether first or last, receive your reward.
O rich and poor, one with another, dance for joy!
O you ascetics and you negligent, celebrate the day!
You that have fasted and you that have disregarded the fast, rejoice today!
The table is rich-laden; feast royally, all of you!
The calf is fatted; let no one go forth hungry!
Let all partake of the feast of faith. Let all receive the riches of goodness.
Let no one lament their poverty, for the universal kingdom has been revealed.
Let no one mourn their transgressions, for pardon has dawned from the grave.
Let no one fear death, for the Saviour's death has set us free.
He that was taken by death has annihilated it!
He descended into Hades and took Hades captive!
He embittered it when it tasted his flesh! And anticipating this Isaiah exclaimed: "Hades was embittered when it encountered thee in the lower regions".
It was embittered, for it was abolished!
It was embittered, for it was mocked!
It was embittered, for it was purged!
It was embittered, for it was despoiled!
It was embittered, for it was bound in chains!
It took a body and came upon God!
It took earth and encountered heaven!
It took what it saw but crumbled before what it had not seen!
O death, where is thy sting? O Hades, where is thy victory?
Christ is risen, and you are overthrown!
Christ is risen, and the demons are fallen!
Christ is risen, and the angels rejoice!
Christ is risen, and life reigns!
Christ is risen, and not one dead remains in a tomb!
For Christ, being raised from the dead, has become the first-fruits of them that slept.
To him be glory and might unto ages of ages. Amen.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paschal_Homily

Admonition

You. Read Ecclesiastes today.

Perception and Motivation

We interrupt this Operating Room Observation Paper to bring you a breaking random thought from the mental apparatus of the author:

Theory - Attention span is directly proportional to felt need to know.

Furthermore, felt need to know is directly affected by perceived opportunity to learn.

I.E. higher stakes increase attention span. Limited opportunity with high stakes for learning increases attention span even more.

Parallel concept = application. A person applies herself more when stakes are perceptibly high and opportunity is perceptibly limited.

Therefore...
To increase attention span or application, one must increase not the stakes, but the perception of them and limit not the opportunity, but the perception of opportunity.

For many human beings, this necessitates an increase and limitation in actuality because the human being in question senses a bluff quite readily. Our perceptions of reality are remarkably accurate when it comes to quantifiable, observable, measurable phenomena. We are all more or less empiricists.

But the closer a thing comes to uncertainty, the more unsure, insecure a person's perception of the thing - the farther perception is removed from actuality - the less must one manipulate the physical to increase perceived stakes and decrease perceived opportunity. What one must manipulate is merely perception.

As distance between direct observation and perception increases, perception depends more on reports, words, nonquantifiables. Consequently, perception may be changed by suggestion, report, and nonquantifiables.

Threaten to withhold (or offer to give) a thing reported to a man by all to be of extreme value, and he may achieve the impossible - even if the object in question would not be in actuality withheld or were in its essence worthless.

On the other hand, if a man perceives a priceless possession to be secure or of little value, he may fail to lift his little finger if it is jeopardized.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming....

Contexualizing the Christmas Story

If you have access to Facebook and wish to add to the discussion I hope to have provoked there, please do.

Merry Christmas and a Blessed Nativity of Our Lord to you all! As I do every year, I’ve spent considerable time humming or singing Christmas carols and hymns. And as I have for many a year passed, I’ve contemplated one particular hymnodic question.

Briefly consider this hymn written in 1643 by the Jesuit priest Jean de Brébeuf (#Canadian patron saint, Canadian martyr) for the Huron natives. Called “Huron Carol” or alternatively “’Twas in the moon of wintertime,” the hymn illustrates a question of contextualization that intrigues me.

*‘Twas in the moon of wintertime
When all the birds had fled
That mighty Gitchee Manitou
Sent angel choirs instead.
Before their light the stars grew dim
And wandering hunters heard the hymn:
“Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born.
In excelsis gloria.”

Within a lodge of broken bark
The tender babe was found
A ragged robe of rabbit skin
Enwrapped his beauty round
But as the hunter braves drew nigh
The angel song rang loud and high:
“Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born.
In excelsis gloria.”

The earliest moon of wintertime
Is not so bright and fair
As was the ring of glory on
The helpless Infant there
And chiefs from far before him knelt
With gifts of fox and beaver pelt.
Jesus your King is born, Jesus in born.
In excelsis gloria.

O children of the forest green
O sons of Manitou
This holy Child of earth and Heav’n
Is born today for you
Come kneel before the radiant Boy
Who brings you beauty, peace and joy.
Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born.
In excelsis gloria.

I would ask, “Is this hymn appropriate for Christian use?” If so, in what settings is it appropriate: liturgy, private use, caroling? Why or why not?

On the one hand, the song is beautiful (at least, the Jesse Edgar Middleton translation I am working from) and confesses the birth of Jesus Christ. However, I am curious about two aspects of lyrics.

First, how appropriate is the use of the name “Gitchee Manitou” for God? Is the use of this Huron name similar to the anglo use of “God” for YHWH, or is there significant reason to avoid using this name to refer to the Divine (ie; syncretism with indigenous paganism)?

[Wikipedia:
"Gitche Manitou (Gitchi Manitou, Gitche Manito, etc.) means "Great Spirit" in several Algonquian languages. The term was also utilized to signify God by Christian missionaries, when translating scriptures and prayers, etc. into the Algonquian languages.
"Manitou is a common Algonquian term for spirit, mystery, or deity."]

Second, how appropriate is the re-description of the characters in the Christmas story to fit the Huron context? For instance; “wandering hunters” for shepherds, “chiefs from far” for magi, "fox and beaver pelt" for gold, frankinscense and myrrh, and “ragged robe of rabbit skin” for swaddling bands. Are there substantial objections, theologically or otherwise, to such modifications? Objections considered, are the alterations of detail acceptable for hymnodic use?

I do realize that these may be questions lacking conclusive answers, but what do you all think?

* http://www.christmas-songs.org/songs/twas_in_the_moon_of_wintertime.html
# http://www.hymnsandcarolsofchristmas.com/Hymns_and_Carols/huron_carol.htm

The Day You Quit Crying.

Yesterday morning I participated in a medical emergency. To be honest, I started the process. I didn't like how the patient was acting and breathing. I called the nurse, and within a few minutes all sorts of things were happening. We ended up sending the patient out to ER. While we were working, I was calm - likely because I was doing something to help, be it as little as holding the patient's hand or shoulder. After it was out of our hands and I reported to my instructor however, I found Nicole in a supply room and cried on her shoulder. The respiratory therapist saw me and I stopped.

Later that day he found me to show me labs from the ER. After explaining what had happened with the patient, he said something I'll never forget.

"What you did in the backroom is a good thing. Crying means you'll be a good nurse."
"Why?" I said.
"Because it means you care. The day you quit crying is the day you need to quit the job."

When I had awakened yesterday morning, one line of a song had been running though my head and refused to leave me all day.
But since it falls unto my lot
that I should go and ye should not
I gently rise and softly call
Goodnight and joy be with you all!

Need for Caution: Contrition

I've become abruptly aware recently that many of the sayings and metaphorical phrases which I grew up hearing and using in a clean and witty sense may be understood in an unclean, perverted sense. I shall have to exercise much caution if I mean to keep my communication as clear as my thought.

To all my friends and readers: Forgive me if I have unintentionally said something offensive, suggestive, or improper. If it occurs again, please correct me and clarify. Apologies in advance.

If you don't know what I'm talking about, that's ok too.

Ebenezer (look it up)

Thus far by the grace of God...

Unless the Lord builds the house, they labor in vain who build it.

Clinical Practicum is over. Next week I take Exam III and the Theory Final. God-willing, I'll move on to Geriatrics.

I couldn't have passed this test without help. I barely began studying for it prior to yesterday. Lord knows the other classes, life changes, and distractions heaped on my plate. Yet, I feel that I knew the information I needed to; I predict a passing score. Not an excellent score, but a passing score - and that is all I need. For a sufficiently clear mind, alertness beyond my current sleep status, and a good memory, I thank the Lord.

Now I'm about to do something I haven't done in a week. I'm going to go take a walk by myself for pleasure. For no other reason than that I want to be in the air, sun, trees. I'll leave the Care Plans, the Nutrition reading, the exams behind for an hour. They won't go anywhere.

I've a sudden strange sensation of living a life different from what I thought it was. A life where I'm not in control, but controlled by another for my good. Life shifts in it's fluid course. On Christ the solid rock I stand: all other ground is sinking sand.

Bones

This Post Not For the Squeamish. Death and Decay discussed.

Who knoweth the spirit of man that goeth upward, and the spirit of the beast that goeth downward to the earth?

Today I gathered bones.
***********************************************
In August, Chatter, my 2nd original goat died. I heard her cry out from the barn, but I thought nothing of it for the sound ceased as abruptly as it rang out. My goats often cry when they hear people's voices and I was busy. On a "rough day" scale of 0-10, it had been about an 8 already(one of those days where in order to keep my mind and body from pathologic thoughts and acts I hurtle myself into the woods to run till I cannot breathe and movement requires more than will). I was barely holding together as it was, dead tired from readying projects for entry to the county youth fair the next day. So, when conscience pricks drove my weary feet toward the barn, my foggy mind only considered it a routine animal check.

Her body still and bloated. Limbs outstretched. She did not answer my call. A glance told all.

When a foggy mind is slapped with something it is unprepared to handle, it goes haywire, shrieks, calls for help, pleads. But only for a moment. Negative feedback kicks in and the mind goes numb, for one must be able to act logically in crisis, even an emotional crisis.

Dad summoned, I returned to the barn. I touched her; stroked her face, her flank. The children came weeping. Perhaps I was a bit short with them. Dad sighed. It was already growing dark outside. Every piece of equipment capable of digging had broken down. We'd never manually dig a large enough hole that night. But something had to be done. It was warm and there would be no time the next day or the next week to shovel dirt.
"Sarah," he said, "It's the only good choice."
"Alright," I said. "I'll help you drag her."
******************************************************
We laid her 14 year old frame on a hillock under a single tree at the lake farm. Heavy but frail she seemed: I could not help but remember the stubborn, strong doe I first met. I touched the reddish black curls for the last time under the stars and glanced into the darkness. Were the coyotes already gathering?

I had not wept.
******************************************************
Today I gathered bones.

The leaves rustled beneath my feet. I carried a white cardboard box - probably used for bulk foods. The chill wind nipped around my ankles and the edges of my sweater. I thought of nursing and giving life. I pondered dirt, things that live, that grow, as weeds tangled my feet. Toward the tree fled my feet, my thoughts far away.

My feet stopped. I sniffed the air and set down my box. Clean, crisp autumn filled my nostrils as I pulled on vinyl gloves. Though I appreciate physical contact with my work, somehow, even symbolically, I didn't want this dirt on my skin or under my nails.

White, brittle pieces of mineral. The scavengers and elements cleaned well. Gently, I gathered every bit - some bones had been carried a few yards away. Some were missing altogether. Into the box, rib by rib, every tooth and chip, every dried scrap of sinew. Even three hooves remained. For some odd reason, this brought a joy to me, remembering how much difficulty Chatter had given me during hoof trims. Three locks of the glorious red coat also lay preserved, finding their way to the box as well. Last of all, I found the skull. Off all the bones, this was the only one I could clearly visually identify as Chatter's. I could see the smooth grove I used to stroke my fingers along while her eyes closed and head relaxed, the prominent ridge I used to itch for her. I laid it atop the pile. Having combed a 50 foot radius around the spot where we laid her, I broke off dry grass plumes and cushioned the rest of the box.

It's not that Chatter is in her bones, but they once were in her. I understood why we left Chatter's body to the birds, dogs, wind, sun and rain. It was sensible. It was necessary. Yet, part of me had always planned to bury her on the farm, next to Darey (my first goat) when he passed. When we left her clay on the hill, I thought of returning for her bones. One voice inside me pointed out that such action would be sheerly childish and sentimental, that there was no need. Yet another part of me quietly rose up, and, as if in defiance, resolved to go for the bones for the sake of practicing the childish and sentimental even while recognizing the sensible. I do many irrational things in my spare time which one could regard as silly - why not this as well?

******************************************************
There is nothing so much like a freshly plowed garden as a newly dug grave.

Two mounds near the pasture. Two more near the woods. The original herd and cat have passed. Even the doe I raised from a kid shows her years. The herd is unfamiliar to me now - I even have to ask the names of the younger ones.

My brother brought me two crosses. I was tempted to be annoyed, theologically. But the same part of me which brought back the bones squelched it. He meant kindly; he felt bad about the deaths, even though I do not. I laid them on the dirt for him, an adiaphoron. Even if Christ did not die to earn forgiveness of sins for animals, He certainly renewed all Creation by death and resurrection. Goats too belong to that created order.

Who knoweth the spirit of man that goeth upward, and the spirit of the beast that goeth downward to the earth?

Their Creator knows.

His Blood Upon the Rose

Hello, Dear Reader,

I've not blogged for some time now, and all sorts of things are filling up my mind and making me ache to put them to paper, but time does not permit. Perhaps I'll find time for a few soon. Tonight, just one random point of interest.

My lovely sister introduced me to this song several months ago, but it never really caught my interest until recently. Like many other artistic works, it is the story in and behind Grace that most endears it to me. For me, underlying stories make up for many artistic defects. Symbolism in a song attracts me almost more than a story. So, when I tripped over the last verse, I sat back, puzzled, and scratched my head a tad (bit).

Now as the dawn is breaking, my heart is breaking too

On this May morn as I walk out, my thoughts will be of you

And I'll write some words upon the wall so everyone will know

I loved so much that I could see his blood upon the rose.

It seemed clear enough that "His blood upon the rose" was a symbolic reference to something or somebody, but who? My theological impulse of course brought a particular Man's particular Blood to my mind, but I shook my head. Couldn't be. Not in this type of song. But it couldn't be the singer's blood either, for he hadn't been executed yet, and even if he were envisioning the future, he wouldn't refer to himself in the third person, would he?

I asked my dear sister about this (or she asked me, or maybe we both asked each other) and we concluded that the best way to discover any potential reference would be to google the words, "his blood upon the rose." Having done this, she sent me this link. It appears that this poem was written by Joseph Plunkett, the singer in the song;

I see his blood upon the rose
And in the stars the glory of his eyes,
His body gleams amid eternal snows,
His tears fall from the skies.

I see his face in every flower;
The thunder and the singing of the birds
Are but his voice—and carven by his power
Rocks are his written words.

All pathways by his feet are worn,
His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea,
His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn,
His cross is every tree.

It's beautiful. Really, it is. Creation seen in light of, contained in, and redeemed by Christ's Passion. All pathways by his feet are worn...His cross is every tree.

So the reference in the song is to Christ. Amazing. In the midst of tragedy, in his last twenty-four hours with his newly married wife, Plunkett wrote "some words upon the wall" there in the Kilmainham Jail. It is my guess that these are the words. Not words of sorrow over separation from his wife, nor of anger over his impending death, nor a hymn to the fighters for independence, but an expression of the significance of Christ's Godhead and Manhood for creation.

Particularly am I struck by the last line of the poem in the context of Plunkett's approaching execution. His cross is every tree. Though I have no way of knowing how Plunkett was put to death, I'd hazard a guess that hanging was standard procedure. With this in mind, I'd venture that Plunkett saw in his death a participation in the death of Christ - and an entrance into life. Now that's beautiful.

The song Grace retelling Plunkett's last day ends with the words, "I loved so much that I could see his blood upon the rose." Whom did he love? His wife? But that doesn't make sense, except in the sense that he looks into eternity to see a future reunion. Rather than that, it would seem that Plunkett loved a Savior, and his wife in the brilliant light of the the Same.

Anyway. There's a late night extrapolation on the basis of very slight evidence. However, I just couldn't get this out of my mind. Take it or leave it. I can't support my speculation - I just think it's awefully lovely.

Good Night! (Morning)

Something to Think On

Halloween

*Are practices inherently meaningful?

*Is history irrelevant when it is forgotten or ignored?

*Meat sacrificed to idols?

*What is pretend and pretending?

*Two ditches: http://blog.higherthings.org/wcwirla/article/2125.html

That's enough for now.

Cross as Noose, Noose as Symbol

Finally I'm getting this post finished! I can't believe how long this is taking me and how busy I have been!

As for the bishop, the sight of the guillotine was a shock to him, from which he recovered only slowly. Indeed, the scaffold, when it is there, set up and ready, has a profoundly hallucinatory effect. We may be indifferent to the death penalty and not declare ourselves, either way so long as we have not seen a guillotine with our own eyes. But when we do, the shock is violent, and we are compelled to choose sides, for or against. Some, like Le Maistre, admire it; others, like Beccaria, execrate it. The guillotine is the law made concrete; it is called the Avenger. It is not neutral and does not permit you to remain neutral. Who ever sees it quakes, mysteriously shaken to the core. All social problems set up their question mark around that blade. The scaffold is vision. The scaffold is not a mere frame, the scaffold is not an inert mechanism made of wood, iron, and ropes. It seems like a creature with some dark origine we cannot fathom, it is as though the framework sees and hears, the mechanism understands, as though the wood and iron and ropes have their own will. In the hideous nightmare it projects across the soul, the awful apparition of the scaffold fuses with its terrible work. The scaffold becomes the accomplice of the executioner; it devours, eats flesh, and drinks blood. The scaffold is a sort of monster created by judge and carpeter, a specter that seems to live with an unspeakable vitality, drawn from all the death it has wrought.

Thus the impression was horible and profound; on the day after the execution, and for many subsequent days, the bishop seemed overwhelmed...One evening his sister overheard and jotted down the following: " I didn't believe it could be so monstrous. It's wrong to be so absorbed in divine law as not to perceive human law. Death belongs to God alone. By what right to men touch that unknown thing?"

Good Evening, Dear Reader.

The preceding excerpt flowed from the pen of Victor Hugo in his epic work Les Miserables, Fantine, Book One, IV (Works to Match Words). Reading to my brother several days ago (now a week and a half ago), this passage re-awakened a personal sadness over impoverishment of symbols and their meaning in the full sense of the word "symbolic."

Imagine wearing a guillotine or a scaffold around your neck. Imagine hanging a picture of a corpse swinging from the gallows on your wall. Imagine tracing a noose around your neck with your fingers. Imagine praying before a rack or torturer's wheel. Are you feeling nauseated yet?

Yet, as Christians, we do many of these things (their equivalent, at least) quite regularly.

For what is the Cross but an instrument of torture and death? And it was as much a symbol as the guillotine of Hugo's day to the Roman world. What was said of the guillotine and scaffold above that could not be said of a cross?Before God died upon it, the cross was a horror, the embodiment of shame and excrutiating, prolonged death. And for the Jewish and Pagan world encountered by Christianity in it's early years, the cross was still such a symbol. Hence "the reproach of the cross" and the "foolishness of the cross" and the "shame of the cross."

Now, culturally, it's merely decorative. We arrange flowers on it. We put it on our walls, on our shirts, in our churches, around our necks in silver and gold, stick it to our cars, even tattoo it on our bodies without even stopping to think about what we're doing.

But the Cross "is the law made concrete." It is not pretty. It is gory and revolting. One can talk all one wants about crucifixion and remain unaffected - just as I could mention "drawing and quartering" until I saw Gibson's Brave Heart. Now even the words sicken me. (For those who have read Saint Joan by Bernard Shaw [a perfectly frivolous work except for some delightfully profound lines] one might think of "the Chaplain"'s reaction to Joan's burning.) Would we be as silly, unthinking, and irreverent today in our use of the Cross if it were still the norm in criminal punishment?

Though we have never witnessed crucifixion ourselves, we nevertheless confess the Cross as the means by which Christ won salvation for the whole world by incalculable suffering. What does it say about our God and His sacrifice to lightly treat the symbol of His agony in our flesh?

I think of the days prior to my awakening to orthodox catholicity when I was party to mockery of Roman Catholics using the Sign of the Cross. (Yes, Confession time) Sure, I can plead ignorance - the "Romophobia" (term borrowed from an Anglican friend at Hope) of the circles in which I revolved in my early life. But that doesn't diminish the significance of the act. In fact, it almost underscores a new sort of shame which attaches itself to the cross these days.

1. There is a sort of shame among the Protestant contingent when it comes to any relation between the body and spirituality. For many of them, there's a disconnect between spirit and body, the two are treated separately, and the idea that something done to the body could have any spiritual significance is often spurned as false and superstitious. * Thus the water of Baptism and the bread and wine of the Eucharist cannot have any effect upon the soul, besides being "bodily" signs to remind the Christian of "spiritual" things.

2. As said above, the cross, culturally, has become almost "merely" decorative. There is a deliberate, if ignorant of the purport of the action, impetus to separate the cross from its function. (Perhaps there is a link to Modernism and Post-Modernism here that needs to be explored.) People (generic populace) do not automatically think, "grotesque death" when they see a cross. They think, "religious," "christian," "jewelry," or any number of other categories (which they also often incorrectly define). This is especially aided by the Protestant de-body-ing of crosses. Remove the corpus and you've got two perpendicular lines intersecting. With the corpus, the average yokel might think, "Catholic," "Jesus," "church," or even "corpse," before he gets going on the aforementioned list.
People simply don't see a cross as a cross anymore. The sign is no longer symbolic of its function .
This "de-body-ing" the cross does away with the shame of death. But somehow, effacing the shame of the corpse of true Man from the cross, does not mesh with an understanding of the true God who truly became incarnate of the Blessed Virgin bodily, truly suffered bodily, truly died bodily, and was truly raised bodily.

So, on two counts, the mockery of the Sign of the Cross went awry. First, it operated on a false confession that what is done in the body does not matter. A sign doesn't do anything, therefore it is superstitious. Never mind whether it can confess the faith - that's done "with the mouth." Second, it failed to even remotely recognize the intrinsic meaning of the symbol as relating to either death or Christ. Both in the secular and sacred senses, none of the little "sitters in the seat of mockers" made any further connection with the bodily tracing of the fingers than "superstitious Catholics." We felt no shame, because we recognized neither shame nor glory in the simple geometric shape of the cross.

What is left of the glory if the shame never was?

I mean, if there was no intrinsic shame in the cross, why is it such a wonderful thing that Christ has made this tree glorious?

At any rate, there's a lot to chaw on. I'm more and more convinced that words and actions mean and do things - they aren't meaningless, even when they are misunderstood and misused. The spirit is not separate from the body. Rather the spirit lives in the body - not in an alcove, but permeating and filling the material in such a way that both together constitute one being, "the reasonable soul and human flesh subsisting." Even so, (if not quite so precisely) signs and symbols are not mere combinations of color and line, words not mere combination of sound. But each contain within themselves a fullness of history and usage. (This is why I'd often rather have a used book than a new one. Used books bring love with them in dirt and scuffs, in yellowed repair tape, and reglued pages.) This culture has cheapened our words and symbols by both a reductionistic approach and an approach that denies a real reality. To weed a garden is not the mere mechanical motions by which a hand grasps a plant stem by means of muscular contractions and extracts it from the earth, but rather an action comprehending and participating in the weeding of all gardens by all women, the nurturing of family, the tending of soil, yes, even suggesting an icon of the work of the Ministry and unseen Spirit. In the same way, a cross is not two intersecting lines alone, but comprehends every crucifixion and death, justice and injustice, pain, ridicule and shame, culminating in the one great crucifixion which implicates life, justification, vindication, glory, and resurrection in the one word or symbol of a simple cross.

As Hugo says of the Guillotine, the Cross is a living thing, three dimensional in its function, physically and metaphysically. And more than that. In each dimension, the Cross is a paradox as justice meets injustice, sin enounters holiness, glory transforms shame, life conquers by death, perishable is raised imperishable, as the immortal God-who-is-Man dies in order that He might not live without us and that we might live as He lives, sharing the same body.

And Arg! It's 11:57pm. It so annoying to have a brainwave the night before church. I so hope I'll still be alert tomorrow for the sermon. Someone, just slap me. :P

*Luther (in The Freedom of the Christian does say, " And so it will profit nothing that the body should be adorned with sacred vestments, or dwell in holy places, or be occupied in sacred offices, or pray, fast, and abstain from certain meats, or do whatever works can be done through the body and in the body... On the other hand, it will not at all injure the soul that the body should be clothed in profane raiment, should dwel in profane places, should eat and drink in the ordinary fashion, should not pray aloud, and should leave undone all the the things above mentioned, which may be done by hypocrites."
But to say that this passage corroborates the prevalent Protestant position refered to above, is to ignore the sentence which sits between these two preceding and clarifies them: "Some thing widely different will be necessary for the justification and life of the soul, sincethe things I have spoken of can be done by an impious person, and only hypocrites are produced by devotion to these things."

Luther does not say that the soul and body are disconnected or that nothing done to the body can affect the soul and vice versa. He was not so foolish. Indeed, we are saved body and soul by Baptism - a sacrament of water accompanied by the Word and Spirit of God applied to the body to convert the whole person, marking them as redeemed by Christ Crucified for the life everlasting. (See Luther's Catechisms on Baptism) No, the simple point Luther aims to make is that justification is not meritoriously gained by a man's actions. Man is justified by faith - not a belief he works up for himself, but the gift of God which simply receives the forgiveness freely given into its hands by Christ. It is not a striving or reaching for, but a bodily open mouth into which another delivers sustenance. The soul is not removed from the body, but lives in the body and through the body.
Would we assert that what is done in the body is unrelated to the soul we might expect Luther to respond, "Not so, impious men, I reply; not so. Tht would indeed really be the case, if we were thoroughly and completely inner and spiritual persons; but that will not happen until the last day, when the dead shall be raised. As long as we live in the flesh, we are but beginning and making advances in that which shall be completed in a future life," etc. Not that in heaven we shall be bodiless, for what then would be the purpose of confessing that we believe in "the resurrection of the body"? As Hugh of St. Victor says (refer to Treasury of Daily Prayer, Writing for Friday, Easter 7), "But if I shall rise in an ephemeral body, then I shall not be the one who rises. For how is it true resurrection if the flesh cannot be true? Therefore, clear reasoning suggests that if the flesh will not be true, without doubt the resurrection will not be true. So also, our Redeemer showed His hands and side to the disciples who doubted His resurrection He offered them His bones and flesh to handle, saying: 'Handle and see: for a spirit hath not flesh and bones, as you see me to have.'"
All that to say that this Protestant idea is by no means an orthodox one nor can it be properly ascribed to Luther.

I Would Not Be Afraid.

I do not want to be afraid any longer.

Pain, I will endure - it is my lot here on earth.
Longing, I will contain - it sustains my hope.
Love, I will give and not withhold - it nourishes the spirit

But Fear,
Fear corrupts Love, kills and squelches it.
Fear twists Longing, by strangling hope of fulfillment without abating the yearning.
Fear manipulates Pain, diverting it from it's proper end, and sealing lips that should pray.

Where shall I run from fear?

When I was small, I would run to my mother's arms, snuggle beside her in bed to escape nightmares. But she would always send me back to my own bed after the initial calm. Now I am too old to snuggle up in her lap. The fears I have now, my mother cannot calm.

But I am still a child of God. And I still have my Mother the Church. What then shall I do? Shall I run to her? I would - inasmuch as I am still a child. For only as a trusting child can I receive her comfort. And here is the sadness of it all. When I think myself begun to be wise, I begin to doubt my Mother. When I begin to doubt her, her gentle ministrations fall on skeptical ears. Ears which would believe her, but into which the wisdom of the world has whispered doubts concerning the wisdom of God. Kyrie Eleison!
So the child in me would cling to her skirts, would cry out to the Virgin's Son for His forgiveness - and does so. But when He bestows His blessed mercy and forgiveness, why does the upstart fool in me scorn His grace by doubting His absolution?

Our God's mercy is infinite, but how if I should fail to see Him? How shall my eyes be turned from seeing my own sin to beholding the righteousness of Christ? How shall I cease to call "unclean" what God has declared "clean"? And how shall I trust His Word that it is so?

God has not given us a spirit of fear. God the Holy Spirit drive out this fear which does not fear, love, and trust in God above all things, and fill the vessel of earth.

And I Am Seized Once More by the Blogging Urge

Dear Reader,

This is one of those nights wherein I ought to sleep instead of holding tryst with my computer keyboard in the dark hours of the night but in which I find that my mind is o'er brimming with words, though I am exhausted by my day. Hence, I take upon myself to write a short post. Hah! A hopefully short post which I may expand upon later.

I'm going to try to explain why I like the painting The Justice of Emperor Otto III by Dirc Bouts C 1460.

This particular diptych moved me greatly and I've developed a deep admiration for and attachment to it. In fact, I selected it as one of the paintings on which I wrote for my Augustine College Art final exam. Yet, when I mention my appreciation for this painting to family and acquaintances, I'm met at first with curiosity and then with, after I mention the subject of the painting, a sort of aversion and incredulity. You see, the two panels are titled, The Wrongful Execution of a Count and Ordeal by Fire.

What do I see in a work of art with such titles? First, take a look.

Prior to Augustine College, I probably would have barely glanced at these images or simply passed over them in disgust at the subject matter. But, thanks to Dr. Tingley, I was not able to treat this diptych so.

Such pictures, one would suspect, must certainly tell a story. As Dr. Tingley explained to the class, this diptych was painted for the wall of a hall of justice in the Lowlands. Strangely, the first panel depicts a miscarriage of justice - apparently historical.

Otto III, shown with his wife, gazing from the wall, has just sentenced a count, depicted in white below, to death. Otto's wife accused the nobleman of attentions to her after the count refused her overtures. The count walks to his death attended by executioners, priest, and his own wife who listens to him with downcast face. He swears his faithfulness to her and charges her to vindicate him. As the apathetic courtiers watch, the count is beheaded and the countess receives his head from the executioner.

In the second panel, the scene changes as the countess pleads her husband's innocence. To decide the point, she undergoes an ordeal by fire, meant to test in her own body the word of her husband against the Emperor's queen. If she is hurt by the red hot iron bar, her husband has played her false and deserved his death. If she is unharmed, he will be vindicated. The hot iron mars her not, the Emperor is aghast and his court astonished. In the background, the false wife of the Emperor burns at the stake for her slander and unfaithfulness.

At this point, please don't be repulsed by the tragic tale. True, it is tragic. It is sobering. But it is also beautiful in two points. One of these, Dr. Tingley brought out in his lecture: Human Justice ultimately accountable to Divine Justice.

Human Justice may be miscarried. Human Justice may be executed in anger and from false witness. Human Justice is fallible and may be twisted. Human Justice may condemn the innocent instead of aquitting him.

But Divine Justice will not and does not falter. Human Justice is accountable to Divine Justice. It is to Divine Justice and not Otto's Justice that the Countess appeals to as she confidently enters her ordeal. (Not that I'm advocating ordeals to determine guilt or innocence. Though, come to think of it, imagine how many criminals would continue to plead innocent if guilt were determined by ordeal!) Those who administer Human Justice ought to tremble before the Divine Justice to which they will be called to account. For those who such ministers condemn, fully believing them guilty though they were actually innocent, will be vindicated by the One who entrusted the sword to them.

Imagine being the judge who had to hear cases sitting before this diptych! What serious weight would it add to your judgements by its silent reminder of both the frailty of your justice and the Divine Court of appeal.

But there's another beauty to this painting-narrative which Dr. Tingley didn't touch on. This diptych could also be dubbed "A Tale of Two Wives" - one a faithless adulterer, the other a trusting, obedient wife. Both husbands trusted their wives. One betrayed and used his trust while the other upheld him even in his death.

Frankly, I'm quite amazed at the Count's wife. Her acts testify to a marriage of implicit trust between the partners. Honestly, how many women would first of all, believe a husband's assurance of fidelity when he had been condemned to death for unfaithfulness? And after that, how many women would trust such a husband to the extreme of testing his word in their own flesh?

Yet, this woman doesn't merely "trust" her husband in thought alone, or "hope" that he was faithful. She hears his promise as he's led out to die for breaking it and believes him. Not only does she believe him, but she quietly receives his final charge to prove his innocence. Her loyalty remains even after her husband's execution, nor does the shame deter her from keeping his trust. She appeals Otto's judgement and, moreover, does not satisfy herself with mere pleading. She offers her very body to test the Count's innocence. She trusts him not with her words alone, but with actively, she still trusts her very flesh to her husband just as she did in his life. The Countess enters the ordeal with a double confidence: a confidence in her husbands truthfulness, and a confidence in God as the just confirmer of the truth and vindicator of the innocent. Without such confidence, she would have reason indeed to tremble for her body. Yet neither of her confidences betray her - the faithful wife, obedient to her husband's last charge, passes the trial scatheless.

It is this unquestioning, undoubting trust and confidence in God and husband which marks the Countess' marriage in this pictoral narrative and so endears the diptych to me.

My brain isn't working well tonight, but I hope that was intelligible. Am not going to review before posting.

Liturgy is Like Maccaroni and Cheese?

Every family makes Maccaroni and Cheese a little bit differently. And each member of the family fixes the family recipe a bit differently.

Some cook it out-of-the-box and some cook it "out of the box." Some make it from scratch. Some use oddly shaped noodles. Some put in veggies and some put in meat. Some put in extra cheese. A few put in hot sauce. Some sprinkle on parsley or offer it as an optional side. Some eat it as is.

Among the veggie adders, one may encounter the advocates of brocculi, carrots, peas, tomatoes, and stranger animals. Among the meat includers one might meet mixers-in of hot dogs, sausage, ham, or weirder substances. And the advocates of cheese besprinkle the mac with breeds as various as the possibilities of that fungal growth.

Those are more of the purist cooks. Then you get the ones who like to experiment and mix. The ones who throw in all the leftovers from the fridge and hope no one notices the incompatible tastes. Or the ones who change the recipe every week, startling the tastebuds into a sort of annoyance.

But even this is still Maccaroni and Cheese.

There are still the noodles and there is still the cheese. Other little practices more or less compatible with the noodles and cheese may be added, but the basis of the Maccaroni and Cheese remains the same.

It's when the cooks start forget about the noodles and the cheese that the eater of Maccaroni and Cheese should get nervous. When the dish becomes more about how many colors of veggies can be fit into it, or how many leftovers can be used up in the process, or how different it can taste from Mrs. X's maccaroni and cheese, the eater fights an urge to panic and go back to plain noodles and cheese - no embellishments.

I like fried perch - but please don't put it in my Maccaroni and Cheese. Hot dog chunks, in the right proportion and right context, can serve and bring out the flavor of the cheese and texture of the noodles, but not always. Sometimes the hot dogs can distract from the dish itself. Even brocculi in the wrong amount, or cooked incorrectly, can simply deter a child from eating and enjoying his Maccaroni and Cheese. Something about the stringy green against the yellow disgusts him - he just can't bring himself to put a spoonful in his mouth. Brocculi, most often a wonderful addition to any dish of Maccaroni and Cheese, has become a stumbling block keeping the child from eating his dinner, or enjoying it if he does taste it.

Embelishments are supposed to enhance the eating of the Maccaroni and Cheese. Where they don't, oughtn't they be left out or introduced gradually, so that the eater's tongue may come to find them palatable?

On the other hand, noodles and cheese cannot be disposed of and ought to be of the finest quality if they can be had. If one were to make Maccaroni and Cheese without noodles or cheese, it would cease to be the dish it was meant to be. Elbow maccaroni is good, but bowties set off the dish as a work of genuine art-cookery. Processed Cheese-Food is satisfactory and suitable for simple lunches, but genuine Cheddar suggests an entree of special quality and excellence for an occasion of the same.

Am I going crazy? If not, what have I forgotten in this nice little comparison?

Why I Deleted My Last Post, Why I Was Wrong to Do So, And Why I Am Reposting It.

Hello Dear Reader!

If you've followed this blog the past week, you might have been puzzled by the appearance and subsequent disappearance of a blog post of a rather melancholy and disorderly nature. As you shall observe below, it has been reposted along with all the kind comments commented upon it before its deletion.

In considering my actions upon this poor piece of writing, I felt (and thought - for Dr. Patrick admirers) that I ought to repost, apologize, and explain myself, if not for your benefit, dear reader, then for my own.

Why I wrote this post:
The initial set of actions (writing, posting, and deleting) were all done under the influence of PMS. I'm sure you're all well aware of this delightful cognitive phenomenon, having either suffered directly its effects or having suffered by virtue of the actions of another sufferer.


I wrote this post because, well, I did feel just as I described: split between two identities, unwilling to give up the new, yet not finding any place for her within the framework of the old. I felt out of place here, like a sore thumb, always wanting to talk about Augustine College to people who weren't really that interested, always quoting (Dr.) Tingley, or Joel, or Zack, or Emily and then suddenly realizing that the jokes just weren't funny without the context. I wanted to go home, but where was home? I had to spill some of this, just had to, but I couldn't do it to anyone in particular among my family. I was already feeling terribly afraid that I had hurt them by talking so much about Augustine even though I hadn't seen them in four months. So I spilled it to blog. At least on blog my parents weren't likely to read my groanings and some potential Augustinian sympathizers might. At any rate, I needed to explain myself to someone.


It was late at night when I began, tears falling on my keys, amid piles of boxes and junk from preparations to move my room. Late night blogging seems to be the norm of late, but I must somehow reverse this trend as it does not make for posts of exceeding joviality. I finished, blew my nose and wiped my eyes, then threw myself in bed.


Why I deleted this post:
The next morning I drove out to the community college and dropped off my application to Nursing School. Then I came back and started cleaning. (psst: Cleaning Warpath seems to also come with PMS for me.) I washed the dishes, cleared the counters, swept the main living spaces, mopped, oiled the wood floor... and then collapsed in an arm chair for a few minutes (ok, maybe more than a few minutes) of checking for pictures of Graduation on Facebook. I was already feeling ashamed of being blunt with my emotions on blog, as I certainly wasn't trying to attract pity or induce anyone to think that I was unhappy to be home or unhappy with my lot in life, but I thought I might as well let what I had written stay written.


Within 10 minutes, as a result of a conversation and email, I was convinced that I had been totally misunderstood, had hurt and perhaps even angered one who was dear to me. I was angry and frustrated - mostly with myself. Petulantly, I unreasonably thought that if I deleted the post, all source of any bad feelings would be destroyed. In that impulse, I clicked "delete" and over an hour of typing vanished. (Per my usual custom not to completely destroy my writing, I first emailed the post to myself.)


Why I was wrong to delete the post:
First, I acted in anger and frustration without deliberation. Even if the post should have been deleted, this was not the manner in which the act ought to have been performed.


Second, I acted with the intent to destroy the source of my problems, as if I of myself could by one act dispell my fear and preserve my loves. Silly as it might sound (C'mon, it's just a little blog post), by looking to myself for my life I made a god of myself for myself. (Luther: An idol is anything one fears, loves, and trusts in)


Third, by deleting the post, I was attempting to deny history. The past exists by virtue of having occured. Because it is not in the present, it cannot be altered. I did post this post, and to pretend not to have done so would simply be to deny my own communication. It would be one thing if the post were harmful in some way or if no person had read it before I deleted it. As the matter stood, however, the post was merely an honest appraisal of myself (granted, the appraisal was performed at an hour when I was not fully myself) and perhaps helpful to someone in understanding me and maybe even their own experience. Also, several of you readers left very gracious, comforting comments for which it were incivility and ingratitude to erase as though you had never extended your kindness to me.


Fourth, if the content of this post were truly of the noxious sort which ought never to have been published in the first place, the wrong was done when I first posted it. Perhaps it exposes a need for longer deliberation before posting a post in the first place. Certainly, the deletion demonstrated an even greater disregard for deliberation and consideration that the initial posting. If the post were hurtful, more would be required of me than a simple deletion to repair the damage.


For all these reasons, and maybe more, I was wrong to delete the previous post.


Why I am reposting this post:
First, because the writing of this post was an important part of the history of this blog and belongs in it.


Second, because this post may perhaps be helpful for anyone (possibly myself some years in the future) seeking to understand me, my life, my mind, and my development.


Third, because of the kind comments posted before I deleted the piece. It seems a travesty to belittle such courtesy to food for the garbage bin.


Fourth, because I am now seeking to come clean with myself, to hold myself accountable for my actions, and to not simply pass over what I have done wrong when I could do something to right it; to build up a character which deliberates and chooses wisely. (Though I know my salvation and forgiveness is not dependant upon these things, the quality of help I would proffer my neighbor is affected by the state of my character.)


To this end, I hope to soon draw up a set of guidelines for my future blogging expeditions with tips for the reader who may choose to accompany me upon such exploration.


My apologies and gratefulness for your patience with my human frailties and humourous mood swings. Thanks to all who initially commented on the last post.