New Encyclical!

I live in Rome, but it takes an American back in the States to let me know that the Pope has released his latest encyclical. (Thanks, Thom.) Spe salvi - On Christian Hope was published today on the Vatican website.

“SPE SALVI facti sumus”—in hope we were saved, says Saint Paul to the Romans, and likewise to us (Rom 8:24). According to the Christian faith, “redemption”— salvation — is not simply a given. Redemption is offered to us in the sense that we have been given hope, trustworthy hope, by virtue of which we can face our present: the present, even if it is arduous, can be lived and accepted if it leads towards a goal, if we can be sure of this goal, and if this goal is great enough to justify the effort of the journey. Now the question immediately arises: what sort of hope could ever justify the statement that, on the basis of that hope and simply because it exists, we are redeemed? And what sort of certainty is involved here?

No small questions, those! This is the first paragraph; I'm looking forward to reading the rest. From the sparse sentences on Thom's blog, it sounds like atheism is one of the main things the Holy Father is addressing - timely, considering the spate of atheists hitting the presses lately: Richard Dawkins, Christopher Hitchens, and other more scholarly types.

Enjoy, and happy Feast of St. Andrew (especially to those of you with Scotland in your veins . . . or last names...)!

Recent History, the Last Week in Ordinary Time, and Miscellaneous

Last Thursday, Thanksgiving Day, Kevin and I did indeed end up at the North American College, as planned. Beautiful Mass and a wonderful turkey dinner, with the much-anticipated pumpkin pie topping off the evening. This year it was introduced by none other than Elvis - apparently he didn't die, but instead chose to disguise himself as a seminarian of southeast-Asian descent. I would supply the very entertaining Thanksgiving-filled lyrics from this appearance of the King, but my Elvis repertoire isn't that good . . .

Friday we roasted two chickens plus a pair of chicken legs, and miraculously baked an apple pie. Apple pies are supposed to take (and in my experience do take) between 40 and 50 minutes to bake, but when we stuck the pie in the oven, we had around twenty minutes before we needed to head out the door to catch the train into Rome to celebrate Thanksgiving with a gaggle of friends. So we prayed. The pie was done in something under half an hour - perfectly done - and we made the train on time, chickens, legs, and pie in hand.

Continuing the theme of food, dinner Sunday night goes down as a meal to remember. A good friend and mentor of sorts of Kevin's, Dave B., came into town over the weekend on business and treated us to dinner at the Hotel Hassler, which sits atop the Spanish Steps. The Imàgo restaurant is itself atop the hotel (indoors), so the result is a breathtaking view of Rome. Great food, great company - great to finally meet Dave, about whom I'd heard so much - great view, great evening. Great big seagulls, too, perched out on the windowsill toward the end of our meal - two of them. The size of small cats. (They could each have eaten your Little Man whole when you first got him, dear Archibalds.) I never thought I'd say "noble" of a seagull, but it fit these birds.

Sunday was Christ the King Sunday, which also means that this is the last week of Ordinary Time - the Church is approaching her own new year's eve this Saturday. That also means that this is a week I've been anticipating for the whole year - it's the week of Dies Irae, a now-neglected Gregorian chant sequence once sung at Catholic funerals and on All Souls' Day, reminding everyone of the Divine Judge and our total dependence on Jesus' mercy. This is the week of Dies Irae because this week it is the recommended hymn for sections of the Liturgy of the Hours as we contemplate the end of the world, the Last Things, the Final Judgment.

It is a tremendous chant - you can hear the deep rolls of thunder, the sounding of the last trumpets, and see the red clouds boil in as the flaming chariot bearing Christ the Just Judge overshadows the Vittorio Emanuele Monument. You see the setting of my Apocalypse . . . It's taken a little bit of a beating this year because the monument is undergoing renovations & is shrouded in scaffolding and plastic - somewhat anti-climactic. Ah well. There's still the Dies Irae.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Happy Thanksgiving from Rome! Kevin and I have a great deal to be thankful for this year (each other, for example), and so we welcomed this holiday very fittingly with a dish that every American elementary school student is told was at the First Thanksgiving, eaten by the pilgrims wearing funny hats. The popcorn pictured was popped by none other than yours truly, Mrs. Keiser, herself. It goes down in Keiser (and Fenton) Family history as the first batch of real (non-microwave) popcorn I have ever popped. And I did it on the stove - no Stir-Crazy. Having a glass lid for the pan helped. A lot. In any case, it was truly an historic occasion (worthy of the "an" in front of historic - a point of style I don't really understand).

In other points of history and Keiser family happenings, we acquired a space heater today, and it's doing a lovely job heating our eating-and-computering space at the moment. Ah, the blissful feeling of not-freezing air on my feet! It's also possible for me to type quite a bit faster when my fingers are not stiff from the cold.

Tomorrow, Thanksgiving Day proper (I'm writing this on Thanksgiving Eve), Kevin and I will be heading over to the North American College, where the American diocesan seminarians live, for their annual Thanksgiving Mass & Dinner. We'll be sitting at the Illinois table, since I'm from Michigan and Kevin is from Kansas. Clear? (Okay, we'll be there because an Illinois seminarian invited us.) The highlight of the dinner will (I assume) be the presentation of the pumpkin pies.

While the pie itself is enough of a highlight for me, its entry is further emphasized every year by some sort of song/reading/skit/poem/other creative endeavor. Last year, it was a very amusing rendition of the song "Pumpkin Pie," (which you probably know better, with different words, as "American Pie.") Another year, it was a reading of a section of Gaudium et Spes with "pumpkin pie" substituted for the word "man": "The dichotomy affecting the modern world is, in fact, a symptom of the deeper dichotomy that is in pumpkin pie itself. It is the meeting point of many conflicting forces. In its condition as a created being, it is subject to a thousand shortcomings, but feels untrammeled in its inclinations and destined for a higher form of life...And so it feels itself divided...."

Enjoy your turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, and yes, Pumpkin Pie, and don't forget to thank the One who is responsible for it all! (And say hi to the good ol' U.S.of A. for us if you're there.)

Interesting Book Review

Thanks, George, for the heads-up on Spengler's review of Fergus Kerr, OP's book Twentieth-Century Catholic Theologians. Definitely the most interesting book review I've read in a long time - and now I want to read the book.

The review intrigued me for a number of reasons. First, Spengler begins with a rather bold premise:

To win a gunfight, first you have to bring a gun, and to win a religious war, you had better know something about religion. America's "war on terror" proceeds from a political philosophy that treats radical Islam as if it were a political movement - "Islamo-fascism" - rather than a truly religious response to the West. If we are in a fourth world war, as Norman Podhoretz proclaims, it is a religious war. The West is not fighting individual criminals, as the left insists; it is not fighting a Soviet-style state, as the Iraqi disaster makes clear; nor is it fighting a political movement. It is fighting a religion, specifically a religion that arose in enraged reaction to the West.

None of the political leaders of the West, and few of the West's opinion leaders, comprehend this. We are left with the anomaly that the only effective leader of the West is a man wholly averse to war, a pope who took his name from the Benedict who interceded for peace during World War I. Benedict XVI, alone among the leaders of the Christian world, challenges Islam as a religion, as he did in his September 2006 Regensburg address. Who is Joseph Ratzinger, this decisive figure of our times, and what led the Catholic Church to elect him? Fr Kerr has opened the coulisses of Catholic debate such that outsiders can understand the changes in Church thinking that made possible Benedict's papacy. Because Benedict is the leader not only of the Catholics but - by default - of the West, all concerned with the West's future should read his book.

Second, I was able to dig up the table of contents (not found on Amazon.com) and found that I was looking at a list of most of the 20th century Catholic theologians that I'd like to know more about. I have read bits by some of them, know bits about most of them, and own books by a few of them (lying unread in boxes at home), but a real introduction to them would help.

These are the men who have shaped contemporary Catholic theology - not without controversy (a lot of controversy), and not without some tangling with the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith (Schillebeeckx and Küng).

Preface.
1. Before Vatican II.
2. M.-D. Chenu.
3. Yves Congar.
4. Edward Schillebeeckx.
5. Henri de Lubac.
6. Karl Rahner.
7. Bernard Lonergan.
8. Hans Urs von Balthasar.
9. Hans Küng.
10. Karol Wojtyla.
11. Joseph Ratzinger.
12. After Vatican II.
Appendix: The Anti-Modernist Oath.
Index.

Third, I'm not at all sure I'll agree with Kerr's take on things - particularly his presentation of Thomism, which he seems to assert (according to Spengler's review) that Gilson, Chenu, and de Lubac, among others, rescued from the skeletal clutches of the 16th-century Jesuit Suarez.

My husband, I think, would differ.

Nevertheless, I would like to see how the much-misappropriated Aquinas is said to fit into this scheme - particularly when I have Kevin around to read excerpts to. After we finally get our hands on the book, I hope we'll post our own review.

Artificial "Intelligence"

Saturday morning, Kevin and I trotted into the Angelicum bright and early (9:30 - early enough for a Saturday!) to attend a lecture on Artificial Intelligence being given by Fr. Philippe-André Holzer, OP, one of my favorite professors from my philosophy program last year. The lecture was jointly part of an ongoing Angelicum course consisting of different lectures by different professors, and an offering of the STOQ Project: Science, Theology, and the Ontological Quest, a project sponsored by the Angelicum, the Pontifical Council for Culture, the Pontifical Lateran University, the Pontifical Gregorian University, the Pontifical Athenaeum Regina Apostolorum, and several other universities.

Fr. Holzer had done his doctoral dissertation on Artificial Intelligence, but he never referred to it in class, so I was looking forward to finally hearing a little about it from him.

He began the lecture with a rather detailed but very comprehensible introduction to Turing machines (I won't even try) and then moved on to the Turing test, introduced by Alan Turing in his 1950 article "Computing Machinery and Intelligence." Basically, if you asked questions to which you were given typewritten answers, would it be possible, within a five-minute "conversation," to determine whether the one answering the questions were a person or a computer. If it were not possible to distinguish a computer respondent from a human, Alan Turing would be satisfied that the computer was demonstrating intelligence.

Turing devotes the entire second half of the article to addressing objections, both objections concerning the possibility of intelligent machines and to his method for establishing their intelligence. The article (linked above) is worth a read for anyone interested in the area, if you haven't already read it (Dad).

If you want to try the year 1966's approach to the Turing test yourself, just check out ELIZA, the "Rogerian-psychologist" computer program.

Fr. Hozler finished the lecture with John R. Searle's 1980 article, "Minds, Brains, and Programs," which effectively establishes that the emperor of Turing's test has no clothes. Searle proposes the following test:

Suppose that I’m locked in a room and given a large batch of Chinese writing. Suppose furthermore [page 418] (as is indeed the case) that I know no Chinese, either written or spoken, and that I’m not even confident that I could recognize Chinese writing as Chinese writing distinct from, say, Japanese writing or meaningless squiggles. To me, Chinese writing is just so many meaningless squiggles. Now suppose further that after this first batch of Chinese writing I am given a second batch of Chinese script together with a set of rules for correlating the second batch with the first batch. The rules are in English, and I understand these rules as well as any other native speaker of English. They enable me to correlate one set of formal symbols with another set of formal symbols, and all that "formal" means here is that I can identify the symbols entirely by their shapes. Now suppose also that I am given a third batch of Chinese symbols together with some instructions, again in English, that enable me to correlate elements of this third batch with the first two batches, and these rules instruct me how to give back certain Chinese symbols with certain sorts of shapes in response to certain sorts of shapes given me in the third batch. Unknown to me, the people who are giving me all of these symbols call the first batch a "script," they call the second batch a "story," and they call the third batch "questions." Furthermore, they call the symbols I give them back in response to the third batch "answers to the questions," and the set of rules in English that they gave me, they call the "program."

Now just to complicate the story a little, imagine that these people also give me stories in English, which I understand, and they then ask me questions in English about these stories, and I give them back answers in English. Suppose also that after a while I get so good at following the instructions for manipulating the Chinese symbols and the programmers get so good at writing the programs that from the external point of view – that is, from the point of view of somebody outside the room in which I am locked – my answers to the questions are absolutely indistinguishable from those of native Chinese speakers. Nobody just looking at my answers can tell that I don’t speak a word of Chinese. Let us also suppose that my answers to the English questions are, as they no doubt would be, indistinguishable from those of other native English speakers, for the simple reason that I ama native English speaker. From the external point of view – from the point of view of someone reading my "answers" – the answers to the Chinese questions and the English questions are equally good. But in the Chinese case, unlike the English case, I produce the answers by manipulating uninterpreted formal symbols. As far as the Chinese is concerned, I simply behave like a computer; I perform computational operations on formally specified elements. For the purposes of the Chinese, I am simply an instantiation of the computer program.

The area of Artificial Intelligence hasn't been getting a lot of popular attention in the last decade or so, despite its popularity in the 1980s. The Internet swept in and grabbed the spotlight, the new millennium dawned without any revenge of the machine, and HAL and his fellow thinking machines quietly fell to the wayside, androids written off as Cold-War-induced sci fi paranoia. Well, at least two creepy steps toward an android are out there: On the level of intelligence, there's this "baby", and on the level of appearance, would you be able to figure out whether you were talking to Hiroshi Ishiguro or Geminoid?

Busy Week

It was a busy week this week. Monday, we got our long-awaited washing machine. Our landcouple (that is, landlord and landlady) had agreed to include it as part of the lease, so they swooped in along with the installation guy from the store. He hooked it up in our downstairs bathroom and then walked Kevin through how to use it, in rapid Italian. I listened to the flood of incomprehensible words in growing consternation, realizing just how many buttons and knobs this pretty white creation has - all labeled with pictures and no words, whether English or Italian. Kevin's comment after he left? "Well, I didn't get everything he said, but it seems pretty self-explanatory."

Fortunately, the loads of laundry that I've done since do seem to have turned out okay - everything has emerged damp, smelling better than it went in, and has remained the same size. Works for me.

Tuesday through Thursday we had classes as usual - which means that it was my first full week of classes, having missed classes due to being sick and then having various and sundry classes suspended due to a Mass at St. Peter's (Thursday) for the pontifical universities and then for All Saints' Day (Thursday). It isn't over yet, either - next week, Thursday morning classes are suspended for opening-of-the-academic-year pomp at the Angelicum, and the following Thursday is Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving, of course, isn't an Italian holiday, but with the North American College making up a significant portion of the English-speaking sections of the school, and the invitations they extend to other Angelicum students for their Thanksgiving festivities (both yours truly included), part of the afternoon is effectively knocked out. Poor Thursday professors. They're being hit hard this semester.

Friday dawned bright, beautiful, and wonderfully warm - no jackets necessary for our grocery-shopping trip. In the late afternoon, we hopped on the train into Rome to go to the Mass at the Basilica of St. John Lateran, since it was the feast of the dedication of the basilica. Made it to Mass, then walked out to find that the weather had cruelly changed - thunder, wind, and rain, and Kevin had no jacket. We'd been planning to go see Bourne Ultimatum, having on good authority that it was showing at a theater in English at 9:40pm, after which my last-year's roommate, Mary, had invited us to spend the night at her apartment. 'Twas not to be. They'd changed the showtime to 4:40pm - so we missed the movie, but still got to spend time (and the night) with Mary.

Kevin and Jeff

Kevin is cooking. A lover of omelets, he doubted that anyone could have much to teach him on the subject - and then he discovered The Frugal Gourmet, one of the two cookbooks I packed to bring to Rome.

Since then, it has been a voyage of discovery and new horizons have opened for the Keiser household. Thanks to this little manual, Kevin has mastered - and improved upon - the "Cheese and Tomato Omelet" (now known here as the Italian Omelet), the "French Potato and Garlic Omelet," and used Jeff Smith's principles to create the "Texas Omelet." This morning I got to have the potato and garlic omelet - two thumbs up. He's now looking forward to trying his hand at Mr. Frugal Gourmet's recipes for Cannelloni and for Pasta Carbonara. Who'd a thunk.

I have my own share of gratitude for Mr. Smith's book - last night I made his "Sole with Rosemary" (except our "sole" was cod . . . minor details), and it was the first fish I've ever had that involved no butter in the recipe and that I didn't want to add some to on my plate.

The recipe:

Sole with Rosemary

1 1/2 lbs. sole (er, cod) fillets
2 Tbls. olive oil
1 Tbl. lemon juice
2 Tbls. white wine
1 Tbl. fresh-chopped rosemary
1/2 Tbl. fresh whole rosemary or 1 tsp. dried (I used dried)
Salt and pepper to taste (I used 1/4 tsp. salt and not sure how much ground pepper)

Place the fish in a baking dish so that the fish fits snugly. Prepare a mixture of the olive oil, lemon juice, wine, parsley, and rosemary. Mix the above ingredients, and pour over the fish. Add salt and pepper, and bake for about 20 minutes, or until the fish barely begins to flake.
(Serves 4-6. Or 1 Kevin and 1 Heidi with a little bit left over.)

One other note is that when Kevin translated the back of the fish bag for me, I learned the trick of putting a piece of foil or parchment paper over the fish in the pan as it bakes - instead of drying out, the fish steams/soaks more in its own juices.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

As for other adventures around here, yesterday evening Kevin and I made a run to IKEA - our last for a good long while, we hope, given that it involves the hour+ train into Rome, a long metro ride, and then a brief bus ride. Some walking in there, too. After getting (in record time) the sheets/towels/household miscellaneous we needed, we went next door to Euronics, the European version of Best Buy, to look for a printer.

We wanted a laser printer that would take us through two theses and assorted other papers - nothing fancy. Unfortunately for us, we arrived just before closing and seemed to only be able to find the fancy printers - plenty of scanner/printer/fax inkjets, plenty of photo inkjets - but a black-and-white laser printer? You silly person! Who wants to just print in just black-and-white!

Kevin finally asked a salesperson, and he pursed his lips and showed us two printers in the store's center-aisle box-stacks that he said were their two black-and-white laser printers. One was by Lexmark and one was by Epson. The Lexmark happened to be the same printer that Kevin and his roommates had bought there last year - only to find out that this Euronics, besides being a pain to get to - doesn't carry the refill cartridges (nor could they say where to get refills for it). We didn't want to repeat that scenario.

Before settling on the Epson, though, we decided to take a look at which refill cartridges they did stock - learning from experience - and, guess what - neither Lexmark nor Epson was represented. In fact, the only brand represented was Hewlett-Packard. The scavenger hunt began - the less expensive of the HP laser cartridges listed something like eight printers that it worked for, so we combed the printer boxes (figuring that at least one had to be in the store) until, lo and behold, there it was - for twenty Euro less than either the Lexmark or the Epson. Victory!

The Yellow Pumpkin

Well, I'm quite happy to say that our trip to La Zucca Gialla (map) with Henry and Roz was a smashing success. It's a little restaurant off the Piazza Navona. After meeting up at Trajan's Column, near the Angelicum, we arrived at The Yellow Squash around 7:30pm, making us some of their first evening customers (don't try eating dinner at a restaurant in Rome before about 7:15 - you won't have much luck).

The restaurant was true to its name. While it had a fairly standard assortment of Italian dishes, it had various pumpkin ones scattered throughout, and the ones we had were very good. I had ravioli with pumpkin sauce (think of a thick, savory pumpkin soup), and Kevin, Roz, and I all had a dish of either pork or veal cutlets (can't remember) with pumpkin sauce served in a lacy "bowl" made out of parmesan cheese. Very reasonable prices; great food. Definitely recommend it.

And, for the record, despite various Roman news articles with blurbs about Halloween, pumpkins don't seem to be associated with October 31 in Rome - or at least not enough to bring crowds into La Zucca Gialla. The restaurant seemed to be doing good business - I'd just be surprised if they were any busier than any other Wednesday night in October.

It was great to see Henry and Roz and catch up with them a bit - we got to hear anecdotes from their wanderings 'round Italy. It's also just fun to see familiar faces this far away from home.

Kevin and I took it easy yesterday - no classes due to All Saints' Day. We slept in, went to Mass here in Santa Marinella, stopped at the discount grocery store (our main store) conveniently located next to the church, came home, napped, ate lunch, and generally just hung around the house. I made bread in the evening - it's wonderful to have an oven! I'm still getting used to the flours here, though. Flour in Italy comes in different grades of fineness - type "00" is used for pasta and is finer than the type "0" flour that's better for baking. I found this out the hard way last year when I made pancakes with "00" flour and they turned out comparatively flat and gummy. Well, the last time I tried to get flour, the store I was at was out of type "0" flour, so I grabbed a bag labelled gran duro, which said that it was good for bread . . . and I didn't read any farther than that. Turns out that it's good for "rustic" breads - it's an unbleached flour a little coarser than type "0." The bread I made yesterday turned out fine - it's just a yellow loaf and a little more dry than it might have been (could also be due to getting used to the baking times for this particular oven). Poor Kevin - I'll just have to practice. (grin)

Finally.

Well, at long last, here I am again - except that now I'm officially a "we." After a whirlwind wedding, honeymoon, and student-visa-getting, Kevin and I have landed safely here in Rome, found a lovely place to live in the seaside town of Santa Marinella (roughly an hour north of Rome by train), and are mostly settled into classes at the Angelicum.

Pretty much as soon as we moved into the apartment, I got sick - fever and indigestion, mostly - but I am all better now, and very much enjoying my health. Kevin was wonderful through it and took very good care of me.

Life is good. We each only have classes Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, so we have to suffer through a four-day weekend every week. Lest, however, you get the impression that all is fun and games, getting up at 5:15 and getting home at 9pm on two of those three days (at least for Kevin) should make you think again.

It's been good to be back in Rome, now that we have somewhere to live and Internet. We're still waiting on a washing machine (missing part and then our landlady's mother in the hospital), but we've been managing . . .

The "winter" rains have started here, it seems, and it got pretty cold last week, but temperatures are back up to the 60's (F), which I'll take even with precipitation.

As far as immediate news goes, Henry and Roz, friends from Michigan, are in town, and we're meeting them for dinner this evening. We'll be heading over to La Zucca Gialla (map), or "The Yellow Squash." Kevin made a reservation for us yesterday - we'll see how far that gets us . . . Aside from it being the eve of All Saints' tonight, it's a restaurant that I was told about and didn't get to go to last year - we tried once, only to find it closed. As shocking as it might seem, I've only had two restaurant meals in Rome that I was impressed enough with to want again - and one of those was a hamburger from Hard Rock Café. I'm hoping I'll run into something memorable tonight.

In the meantime, a blessed vigil and feast of All Saints to you!

Will brake for change...?

Slowly but surely I have been learning how to drive my "new," post-totalled-Prizm car, a 1994 Nissan Altima with a manual transmission. I am not good at it. I don't stall too much anymore - I just sound now, as Ruth says, "as if you want to drag-race everyone at every stoplight." I'm working on it.

The hand-brake is my friend, both for parking and on hills. Somewhat disturbingly, however, there have been a number times when I've released the brake when the brake-light has not turned off so that I've had to repeatedly brake and un-brake in an effort to fully release it.

As I cleaned out my car this afternoon, attacking it with a shop-vac, I discovered what appears to be the reason. Upwards of $2.05 in loose change - an assortment of nickles, dimes, and a few quarters (no pennies) - was rattling around in the handbrake casing, lodging itself in various tight spots. $2.05 is all that I have managed to recover so far - I think there's still around a dollar in there, but I can't reach any of it at present. I did get the particular dime that seems to have been causing the problems out of the way, though. I wasn't able to remove it - but I haven't stopped trying.

How did it get there? Visions of someone emptying a change jar into the handbrake well... Doesn't seem possible. Probable, rather.

(That $2.05, plus the $.50-or-so that Kate and I came across when we first cleaned the car, plus the $.37 I found cleaning the rest of the car today means that I really bought the car for only $97.08...and counting...)

In other news, I am one step closer to Rome - I received in the mail today the letter from the Apostolic Nuncio confirming Bishop Mengeling's letter presenting me to the Angelicum. So far, so good...

June First

It is June first and I am no longer employed by Ave Maria College. An odd feeling. Racing and racing until the end to get everything done, not getting everything done (though getting most of it most of the way there), and now a strange sensation of floating...not euphoria, but more like a kite after the string has been cut, or like Wile E. Coyote when he finds himself beyond the edge of the cliff, hanging for a second.

What

comes

next

...?

In my case, Detroit Summer Outreach with YouthWorks-Detroit is the immediate answer. I would be down there right now, but Janice needs space to move into my room with Ruth, so my stuff must be packed and removed. It is taking a bit longer than I thought, I think. I am making progress, though - I've boxed up eleven cartons of books and at least five of other things, all of which are right now down in the room that was April's and will be Charity's. I am planning to be down in Detroit for our first prayer meeting - tonight at 8 p.m.

On dogmatism and hide-and-seek...

This rang bells of my not-so-distant past for me (doctrine and sacramental life though I'd had) as we read it tonight at a book group I'm in - a selection from Caryll Houselander: Essential Writings.

There is a way of convincing a man that puts him off. The average non-Catholic has only one thing, his personal approach to God. He has no authority, no doctrine, no sacramental life. He has only the secret approach to God in his own soul. A thing as darkly mysterious and lovely as the reaching out of the blind man's hands to learn the features of the Beloved Face, through his finger tips.

It is the most precious and intimate thing that he has, and all too often the unskilled apostle gives him the wholly wrong impression that the Church threatens it.

Catholicism is represented to him, not as life in which his own life will grow and flower, but as a set of dogmas which must be swallowed whole like vitamin pills. He is told that personal feeling does not matter, that what does matter is a dogged, if arid Will, and the arguments put out to support the claims of the church are unanswerable.

At all events, the man's head can not answer them. His heart rebels. It seems even easier to forgo the certainty of Faith, than the touch in the darkness that is the sweetness of life.

The more convinced a man's mind is, the more resistance does his heart put up. The more does the church seem to be a menace to him, the more he is in conflict with himself.

In reality, the Catholic as much as the non Catholic, has his secret life with God, his continual search in darkness. Indeed the secret lives of the saints, presumably the most child-like people, have been games of hide and seek with Eternal love.

Everyone who comes to God must come through his personal experience. His particular temperment and its difficulties are all part of God's plan for the making of his soul. Witness the tears of spiritual travail that assailed Cardinal Newman, of storm and passion that buffeted St. Augustine, and in contrast, the split second in which Saul became Paul. Go back to the midnight of the Incarnation in History and see the different ways in which God leads different men to Himself. The simple shepherd who could hear the angels' voices and find the infant close at hand, the sages who could only find their way through long, scientific study of the stars and must journey from far distant countries to find the King.

St. Philip Neri

Today is the feast of St. Philip Neri, "Apostle of Rome," and patron of the city. He was born July 22, 1515, and died May 27, 1595. Who was he? A man known for his joy, including a keen sense of humor; a man of deep wisdom and equally deep love - for God and for his neighbor; a man who attracted people to him but who was simultaneously deeply humble.

My favorite story about him is also one of the most famous:

A few days before Pentecost in 1544, the well-known miracle of his heart took place. Bacci describes it thus: "While he was with the greatest earnestness asking of the Holy Ghost His gifts, there appeared to him a globe of fire, which entered into his mouth and lodged in his breast; and thereupon he was suddenly surprised with such a fire of love, that, unable to bear it, he threw himself on the ground, and, like one trying to cool himself, bared his breast to temper in some measure the flame which he felt. When he had remained so for some time, and was a little recovered, he rose up full of unwonted joy, and immediately all his body began to shake with a violent tremour; and putting his hand to his bosom, he felt by the side of his heart, a swelling about as big as a man's fist, but neither then nor afterwards was it attended with the slightest pain or wound." The cause of this swelling was discovered by the doctors who examined his body after death. The saint's heart had been dilated under the sudden impulse of love, and in order that it might have sufficient room to move, two ribs had been broken, and curved in the form of an arch. From the time of the miracle till his death, his heart would palpitate violently whenever he performed any spiritual action. (St. Philip Romolo Neri: New Catholic Encyclopedia)

Christi's visiting his tomb at the Chiesa Nuova today...

O my Jesus, Thou who art very Love, enkindle in my heart that divine fire which consumes the Saints and transforms them into Thee. - The Raccolta, 1958 edition, no.74

God is in control

Something I need to remember as I muddle my way to Rome...
From He Leadeth Me by Fr. Walter Ciszek, S.J.

Across the threshold I had been afraid to cross, things suddenly seemed so very simple. There was but a single vision, God, who was all in all; there was but one will that directed all things, God's will. I had only to see it, to discern it in every circumstance in which I found myself, and let myself be ruled by it. God is in all things, sustains all things, directs all things. To discern this in every situation and circumstance, to see His will in all things, was to accept each circumstance and situation and let oneself be borne along in perfect confidence and trust. Nothing could separate me from Him, because He was in all things. No danger could threaten me, no fear could shake me, except the fear of losing sight of Him. The future, hidden as it was, was hidden in His will and therefore acceptable to me no matter what it might bring. The past, with all its failures, was not forgotten; it remained to remind me of the weakness of human nature and the folly of putting any faith in self. But it no longer depressed me. I looked no longer to self to guide me, relied on it no longer in any way, so it could not again fail me. By renouncing, finally and completely, all control of my life and future destiny, I was relieved as a consequence of all responsibility. I was freed thereby from anxiety and worry, from every tension, and could float serenely upon the tide of God's sustaining providence in perfect peace of soul.

Visiting West Point

In honor of the United States Military Academy's commencement exercises (culminating in the graduation ceremony this Saturday, May 27), here's a guide to visiting West Point courtesy of the 1954 edition of Amy Vanderbilt's Complete Book of Etiquette. It seems to me that my experiences as a visitor were a bit different - but how much could possibly have changed between 1954 and 2005?

Many a teen ager dreams of being invited to a West Point Hop but, should the coveted invitation come, a girl hates to ask her escort what's expected of her. She likes to pretend at least that she knows all about the Point, that she has been invited there before, though unable to accept.

The cost of a West Point week end is very modest, even though the girl pays her own way some of the time. She is responsible for getting herself to the Point and back by train, bus, or her own car. Her cadet makes a dormitory room reservation for her, if possible at the U.S. Hotel Thayer, the hotel on the Reservation. The room cost is a dollar seventy-five per night and meals are available at moderate prices. If the Thayer is filled, the cadet arranges to put up his drag at approved quarters in the village, Highland Falls, through the Office of the Cadet Hostess, again at a dollar seventy-five per night, which is paid by the guest, of course.

The week-end guest is not met at the bus or train that took her to the Point but taxies to her designated quarters sometime Saturday Morning. West Pointers have classes half a day Saturday but expect their dates to be available by 2 p.m. When there are home football games cadets are free at 1:30 p.m.

As at Annapolis, there are strict rules concerning transportation and other matters. At the Point a cadet may not drive a car but may be driven in his guest's car or in his family's car. So a girl with a car will prove popular with her escort and will not have to pay taxi-fares (twenty-five cents, point to point) to the dress parade or chapel (a Sunday morning must for cadets - and the considerate guest goes, too).

A West Pointer is allowed to carry a small amount of money now but not enough to take care of all week-end entertainment. Off the Reservation, especially, the girl pays, quietly of course, although everyone knows the rules in this respect. And, as a West Point cadet is not permitted to drink at all, not even beer, a considerate guest does not drink in his presence and, of course, does not bring liquor of any kind into the Reservation itself, even for personal use.

There is usually a hop or other entertainment on Saturday night at the post, for which cadets make all the arrangements. Fairly conservative dance dresses are worn. The girl showing up in attire more suited to burlesque than the starchy Point is unlikely to be asked back.

A cadet is conditioned to walking and expects his girl to be able to get around on her own two feet without wincing. A good pair of walking shoes is essential. A nicely tailored suit or sweater and skirt is expected for sports or an afternoon walk. Slacks and shorts are never worn.

There is no riding for guests at the Point, but there is swimming in summer and ice skating in winter. A conservative bathing suit for swimming (and non-pretentious skating clothes in winter) is a safe choice. Unless you are a ballerina on skates, don't get yourself up in a fancy skating costume. Wear a sweater and skirt.

For Sunday chapel you will probably wear what you arrived in - a soft suit or dress and coat and of course a hat. If you want to wear flowers at any time, you will probably have to buy them yourself, except at Graduation Hop when the cadet traditionally sends them to his chosen girl.

It is poor taste at any time for a girl to smoke on the street, so don't smoke while walking with your cadet, who is not allowed to smoke on main roads and sidewalks. Don't take his arm or kiss him in public - don't even attempt to hold hands while on the Reservation, except on Flirtation Walk where a little romantic leeway is permitted. And, of course, you wait to be invited there.

At the Hop, guests and cadets all pass down the receiving line before beginning to dance. The line consists of, first, the Hop manager, then an officer's wife and her husband, chosen by the Hop manager to act as hosts for the evening. The cadet gives the name of his guest to the Hop manager as he approaches the line. The Hop manager then introduces the guest and the cadet to the hostess, who in turn presents them to the host.

After a Hop all classes may now escort their guests to their quarters, on or off the Reservation, but may not take more than one hour for the courtesy and may not enter any building after leaving the place of entertainment.

Even if you are a cadet's best girl, don't ask him for buttons (which are expensive) or for a miniature of his ring (which is really considered an engagement ring).

As West Point is near New York, it is possible for a cadet to get to town for dates. First classmen are allowed two week ends a month away from the Academy, second classmen are given just two a year. But even here, his spending money is very limited, and if you can't entertain him at home you must arrange entertainment for which you can quietly pay in advance.

West Point Slanguage (still from Amy Vanderbilt)

Air gadget - Air cadet

Area bird - A cadet who usuallly spends his free afternoons serving punishment tours

Army brat - The son or daughter of a regular army officer

B-ache - v. To explain, make excuses n. Official explanation of delinquency; a complaint

Beast barracks - Elementary training of a new cadet before he joins the corps. Barracks occupied during above period of training.

Beno - A cancellation, negative report, derived from the official phrase, "There will be no..." Often comes in the form of a letter from a femme, i.e., "Sorry can't come."

Beno wagon - Mail truck

B. food - Cereal or breakfast food, hot or cold.

B.J. - Fresh; lacking in respect; "Bold before June."

B.P. - Barracks policeman; division janitor

Board fight - A recitation in which cadets are sent to the blackboard, where they fight their way through a maze of problems

Bolo - To fail miserably

Boodle - Cake, candy, ice cream, etc.; all eatables in general, excluding those served in the mess hall

Boodle fight - A gathering of one or more persons at which boodle is consumed

Boodlers - Refreshment room in Grant Hall. Also refers to the boodle dispensing centers at the Cadet Store and the Thayer Hotel

Brace - n. The correct military carriage for a plebe v. To correct a plebe's posture

Break in, out - To be admitted or released from the hospital

Brownboy - Synonymous with sleep or sack; khaki-sacky

Buck - n. A cadet private v. To work against, to oppose

Buck-up - v. To improve upon something

Bugs - Oysters, small pieces of vegetable, or other solids found in soup

Bust - To revoke the appointment of a cadet commissioned or non-commissioned officer

Butt - Any fractional part of any whole, as in a "butt of a glass of milk"

More to be posted tomorrow...

Image is from Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, FSA-OWI Collection, [reproduction number LC-USW33-000140-ZE DLC (b&w film neg.)]

Feast of St. Rita of Cascia

Today is the feast of St. Rita of Cascia, patron saint of lost causes along with St. Jude.

Dear brothers and sisters, the worldwide devotion to St Rita is symbolized by the rose. It is to be hoped that the life of everyone devoted to her will be like the rose picked in the garden of Roccaporena the winter before the saint's death. That is, let it be a life sustained by passionate love for the Lord Jesus; a life capable of responding to suffering and to thorns with forgiveness and the total gift of self, in order to spread everywhere the good odour of Christ (cf. 2 Cor 2:15) through a consistently lived proclamation of the Gospel. - Pope John Paul II