Tuesday, December 05, 2017

Exiting L'Enfant Plaza station, I spied a young family who looked the part: quiet and clean-cut, sporting message wear. They stood together in the alcove of a building on 4th, not exactly moping but in a kind of holding pattern, as if trying to decide their next move. Or simply waiting. They were, in fact, a hint: we would soon be in their same situation. But I didn't know that yet. It was almost noon, the day after Thanksgiving.

The line into the museum was not long but neither was it moving. An employee bore the ire of a man who had just been told in a polite British accent to come back around 1 or 4. Preferably 4. That is, unless he had a ticket. The employee then turned to us with the same message. We heeded him and set off to the Mall a few short blocks away. My kids secretly hoped not to return.

We passed the next three and a half hours walking from the Capitol to the Lincoln Memorial and back. We took our sweet time. And then we returned to the museum. The entry line had queued up now on the building's far side that abuts the train tracks. I was as ready as the kids to bail. An energetic man repeated the earlier promise of gaining admittance at 4 o'clock. He appeared energetic, not because he had any affiliation with the museum but because he was underdressed for the late November chill. He distributed slips of Scripture.

My kids promptly settled on the sidewalk to wait. The young mother of the family ahead of us, with the same number / ratio of kids, said she felt she was seeing her future. The queue built behind us, pickup conversations started. I passed the time completing them under my breath:
Well, uh, yes, we're Catholics, but, uh, just ... [culturally, you know, going to Mass on Christmas and Easter].

I wish this place had been around ... [when the kids were younger].
I even imagined the other one returning to his men's Bible study the following week and reporting how he nearly converted a Catholic to Christianity while waiting on line at the Museum of the Bible in Washington, D.C.!

As we made our way in, we saw huge panels gracing each side of the entrance. The lettering looked backwards and I thought it was perhaps German. But it is Latin, the opening of Genesis.


Those of us with pocketbooks that needed screening went to one side and placed our articles in a chamber of a huge hexagon with green and red lights. We passed through a metal detector, then reached into the other side of the chamber for our things. The chamber on the very top of the hexagon was largely out of reach for most women. So I used it, then rejoined my group. An employee politely directed us to start on the sixth floor but, with limited time, we went to what interested us most. The History of the Bible on the fourth floor.

We noted immediately how high-tech everything was. My kids, who pretended to have no interest, were soon trying this activity and touching that interactive screen.


The irony of those world languages still longing for their own Bible translation with those volumes of extinct or dead languages.



My oldest son was engrossed in a video shot in Capernaum. Whatever the teen equivalent of Been there, done that is. The other kids worked together to complete the canons of various Christian sects. My daughter pretended to be a biblical scribe, and I made sure she understood that, as often as not, the sacred texts were read aloud to a group of scribes who wrote them out accordingly. What a luxury if each scribe had his own exemplar! I stressed this with her, all too aware that Protestants think a simple demonstration of the game of Telephone debunks oral transmission.



I complained about the dim lighting but perhaps the fragile collections require it. Or the high-tech needs it!

My son excitedly brought me to look at the "She" Bible which translates Ruth 3:15 as "she returned to the city" instead of speaking of Boaz. As I dug out my phone's Bible app to verify the passage, I muttered about a similar thing in Genesis 3:15 of the Vulgate and what a coincidence. But my ESV Bible app was no help - it uses "she."

Running short of time, we went down a floor and waited a bit in the New Testament theater to watch a twelve minute video of the whole New Testament. So, where the actual exhibits might reflect some scholarly impartiality, I found the videos to be more imbued with evangelical presuppositions. Take, for example, a post-resurrection, upper room scene: the young St. John is depicted as joting down notes of the proceedings!

On our way out, we ducked into a small exhibit hall off the lobby of loans from the Vatican. Everything was a facsimile. They are supposed to swap things out over time.


The Museum of the Bible was a worthwhile visit. Now that I have some idea about it, I can think about a return. Next month I've reserved a seat on a bus to Washington for the March for Life. But I'd rather spend the day at the Basilica or even at this museum again.

Museum - Google Earth

"‘I had to be there’: The Museum of the Bible opens in the nation’s capital" - Washington Post, November 18, 2017

Saturday, October 28, 2017

One thing I had forgotten was how busy North Easton Road could be in the middle of the day, on a Friday afternoon. I was already late - "icebreakers!" - no rush. Passed the hotel - check in later this evening - and where we'd bought our piano so many years ago, if you can believe it.

In preparation, I had gone back over my materials from previous Bible workshops, from 2008 and later, reminding myself of people and topics past. How different would it be? I drew ideas exclusively from my copy of Sarna's JPS commentary (Exodus) and brought it for security. The Moleskine-esque English Standard Version (ESV) was too taxing on my older eyes; its plain, black cover conveyed no affiliation. I opted last minute for Sproul's Reformation Study Bible (ESV) and this turned out to be the correct choice! Others had the same edition, in leather.

I hadn't anticipated references to this 500th anniversary of the Reformation. Of course it's a big deal. Martin Luther kicked things off, “A plowboy with a Bible knows more than the pope,” or something like that. The tone was set, I thought. We sang some of his compositions and a few other things, no problem. It was even noted, at one point, that "not everyone here this weekend is Reformed." A quote from the Rule of St. Benedict as well as one of Thomas Aquinas' prayers1 rounded things out.

The general session speaker, Dr. Karen Jobes, was excellent. She tried to keep things simple but college teachers usually get on a roll and lapse into their lecture style after so many minutes. She talked about genre and then turned to theological matters, like knowing Christ and sin and love. She worked from John's letters and the Gospel. I had my copy of her book ready to be signed immediately afterwards and I waited as patiently as possible for someone to ask whether she could bring hers tomorrow because she had forgotten it. Then I won a book for being the first one to register for the workshop.


Our name tags include our hometown and church name. Church affiliation is a great curiosity with this group. They must know where I attend church on Sundays. If reading my name tag seemed to bring them up short, I would speak the church name to them without apology.2 They make up their own minds about it and that says more about them than me. For instance, a woman approached me, read my name tag and announced to me that her family used to attend a church that wasn't Bible-teaching but they now attend a Bible-teaching church.

Of greater interest to me than the general session lectures or the small group presentations on Scripture was the music. In this area, I've developed slightly since taking piano lessons and singing in choir. The workshop has a theme song that is familiar to me. We sang also the well-known "Come, Thou Fount" but many of the songs were new to me. I tried to jot down titles to look up later. "Come Behold the Wondrous Mystery," "Lord, I Need You," "All I Have is Christ," "How High and How Wide," "Let Us Love and Sing and Wonder," "Here is Love."

The Catholic church across the street had exposition all day, so after dinner I walked over. I heard the bells toll seven o'clock, such a gentle reminder of the passage of time. The next morning, I watched with a degree of uneasiness a man walk around and around the nave of OLHC. Every time he passed me, he said, "God bless you, my dear." I've attended daily mass my entire adult life but lately I've noticed that my fellow daily communicants seem a little bit off their nut. How long has this been going on and I'm just seeing it? And more importantly, how do I keep it happening to me?

We began Saturday in small groups with presentations on Exodus 12:1-30 and 14:5-31. Both of these passages made me glad to have the one that I had. After the presentations, our small group leader talked about resources and references. She showed a very thick commentary on Exodus by Ryken; it was thicker than a Bible. Ryken is personally familiar to many at this workshop. Since I had brought Sarna's commentary, I showed it and offered to pass it around but no one was interested in seeing it. We were asked in advance which English translation we would work from and I almost said the JPS translation just because it tries to preserve the idioms.

After lunch, I had just enough time to excuse myself over again to the Catholic church across the street for confession. I must have sounded to the young priest as a scrupulous person since it had only been six months. He told me, regarding my lying, that not everyone needs to know everything all the time. I had written out the prayer of contrition for my reference, but a printed copy was available inside the confessional and there was just enough light to make it out.

Back to our small group with presentations on Exodus 19:1-25 and 23:1-20, my conscience was feeling light and refreshed. I may have even been smiling. Seated around the table, for nothing, the participant to my right mentioned the Roman Catholic sacramental system and what a burden that must be! To which the woman at my left said, "Oh, and the guilt! I could never get rid of the feeling of guilt when I was a Catholic!" I took a long sip of my hot tea and let the steam fog my glasses.

I was the last one to present, on Exodus 33:12-34:11a, late on Saturday afternoon. I summarized the "God truth" of the verses as God's transcendence, that I'm left waiting for God and that any attempt to conjure God up would be a golden calf from the previous chapter. I was surprised at how well everyone took these ideas.

Here are the pages that I distributed as I presented.



I was able to attend the anticipated mass that evening before driving home. I haven't been in touch with anyone from my small group since.


1 “Give us, O Lord, a steadfast heart, which no unworthy affection may drag downwards; give us an unconquered heart, which no tribulation can wear out; give us an upright heart, which no unworthy purpose may tempt aside. Bestow upon us also, O Lord our God, understanding to know you, diligence to seek you, wisdom to find you, and a faithfulness that may finally embrace you; through Jesus Christ our Lord.” - St. Thomas Aquinas

2 As if to make myself acceptable, I let it be known that I sing in a choir at a Presbyterian church.
I'm the type of person who sees things fitting together when they don't.

This morning, I dropped my son at a high school entrance exam and looked to pass the wait time, first at mass. I checked three nearby parish bulletins online before finding a church with a suitable start time. Even still, I was too early but baffled as time passed without any cars appearing in the parking lot.

There were lights on inside the building so I entered and glimpsed a folded linen on a back pew. The emptiness of the church drew me uncharacteristically towards the very front of the well-appointed sanctuary. I wanted to take it all in.

I admitted to myself, during prayer, that I'm not very attuned to hearing God in my everyday life. I found myself at a loss, still while at prayer, for how to rectify that. Hearing God seems to come so easy for other people. For me, judging by the outcome, I'm habitually "way off target."

Slowly the room filled but it was now past the anticipated liturgy start time. A cantor arrived, well-dressed, whom I mistook for the lector. She busied herself at the altar as the organist also arrived, her car keys jingling softly as she hastily set them on a music stand. She changed the numbers on the hymn board, first on one side and then on the other. The first song was "On Eagle's Wings." The deacon brought a censer, the acrid smoke drying my nose. I could taste it. I'm taking in these hints that something out of the ordinary is taking place, but it's just barely registering in a conscious way. Instead, I'm rolling along with the clues, still expecting an ordinary mass, even if it's a feast day in an upscale town.

A bell began tolling at quarter past the hour. Then the priest entered, along with the bereaved and the casket. Reacting, the couple right behind me moved immediately several pews back but I didn't feel as if I could gracefully relocate. I do not tend to sit right on the aisle anyway, but I did my best to move even further in, realizing that the family would be directly in front of me. Already I was sizing them up to see whether there were enough seats in those front rows to accommodate them.

As I surveyed the family, I recognized an old acquaintance and one-time neighbor who had recently moved out of state. I glanced about her to verify that her immediate family was accounted for. I almost felt better about accidently attending a funeral for knowing the family.

Everything was very beautiful, the Ave Maria, the homily, the prayers of the funeral rite. I felt that those of us in attendance simply for a weekday service may have aided or supported those intentionally attending a family funeral with our prayers. If nothing else, we didn't need to be reminded when to sit, stand or kneel but the monsignor gave those directives gently. As awkward as it was, and if the family felt we parishioners were intruding, this is how it's supposed to be. After all, arrangements are generally announced publicly in advance.

Thursday, August 24, 2017

During the twelve or so weeks of summer, I make plans, right, on how to spend the time, not only with the kids but also on my own. And, lately, the past three or so summers, I mark a mid-week church service in the Calendar app. I feel the need to keep up "meeting together" (Hebrews 10:25) when the school-year programs go on break.

But for whatever reason, I hardly attend a mid-week service except for maybe once. Tonight, I was early, as usual. The parking lot was jammed but I'll be damned if I knew where everyone was. They weren't in the gathering space and they weren't in the sanctuary. Their wall clock in the gathering space is ten minutes slow but everyone goes by it. So, the few singers were still rehearsing and we let them finish up.

I sat towards the back thinking I would need to leave early. I thought they were ending James but they already had. The pastor wanted to do ten psalms, chapters 11-20; they had done 1-10 last summer. But first he wanted to hear whether anyone had experienced a miracle of God in the past week. A couple of people shared that God had provided opportunities to speak with their neighbors about him. "Divine appointments," they called them. I thought that was just a euphemism for when you're running late.

Not to be outdone, a woman named M--- shared about a friend who was going through a tough time with personal loss. As soon as she mentioned his association with Villanova University, I braced myself. The friend was a Catholic and M---, being a former Catholic herself, had all the answers: "How can a loving God ...?" "But they chose it ..." "I've never heard that before ..."

Somehow we have it all backwards, we believe folks who tell us things we've never heard before.

Then M--- related that the friend said her words sounded better than the Catholic Church and she said, "That's because this is better than the Catholic Church," and so on. And I listened, thinking, do people still say such things? They do. I looked at my watch, only five minutes into the service and someone was bragging on witnessing to a Catholic. 'Bout right.

Psalm 11 is short, only seven verses. The pastor read from the King James but the pew Bible was NIV. I followed along, flipping around as he took us to the end of Isaiah, 1 Thess. 4:11-12 (lead quiet lives, etc) and 1 Timothy 5:13 ("busybodies"). The idea about psalm 11 is that the Psalmist, taken to be David himself, was getting bad advice, in a way similar to Job. But rather than focus on present circumstances, that one person posited may be exaggerated in order to manipulate, the Psalmist reaffirms personal faith in God's sovereign position (in his holy temple, on his heavenly throne).

I thought the pastor glossed over words and phrases that are problematic, notably "the righteous" (in sharp contrast with "the wicked"), and when someone asked about it, he seemed uncomfortable that he didn't have a pat answer. He also stumbled over the strong language in verse 5, that the LORD "hates with a passion" (NIV). He wanted to insist that God hates the violence committed but not the person. Naturally, someone mentioned Jacob and Esau (Romans 9:13) and began to explain that since we are in the image of God and we have emotions, then God also has emotions. The anthropomorphism was getting a bit uncomfortable. And the emphasis on God's justice. I felt an impulse to give the pastor Cardinal Kasper's book but maybe that wouldn't do any good.

My own idea about this psalm and the psalms in general is that, as wisdom literature, they overstate matters, draw sharp contrasts between wicked and righteous, attempt to model godly living but at the same time the psalms aren't the most consistent place to begin at synthesizing a systematic theology. The psalms are filled with human emotion which is why they speak to us and soothe us.

Ultimately, there was an admonition to try to give good advice to others. Things wrapped up in about an hour and I didn't even need to leave early.

Monday, August 14, 2017

It wasn't exactly Broadway.

A Manalapan church chartered a bus to Sight & Sound, located in Lancaster, PA but couldn't fill it. They opened the outing up to the PCUSA congregation in my town, and I signed on. I received scant specifics about the day, despite some effort on my part to learn the details and, as a result, missed the departing bus by a minute or two. Fortunately, I was able to board at the host church's location in Manalapan which meant I had a seat in the very rear of the coach near the pastor's teenage grandchildren and their friends.

The movie shown on board to pass the two hour drive time was Heaven is for real, which is something I was interested in seeing but wouldn't necessarily make any effort to. I like Greg Kinnear as an actor even though I've only seen him in Little Miss Sunshine. I always wanted to see his Sabrina remake but haven't. Sitting where I was, I caught only snippets of the movie here and there. I was already under the impression that the factuality of the events had since been denied by those involved but I may be confusing it with a different movie. Either way, I substituted any "beyond belief" experience as I watched and just pondered the characters' various reactions. I wondered whether the heavenly host's prolonged laughter at the boy's request to hear "We Will Rock You" was some slight on the popular notion of various rock stars jamming together in heaven. As if angels need any mortal's help.

Our first stop after reaching Lancaster, or more specifically, Intercourse, PA, was at Kitchen Kettle Village. The woman leading this church outing was shy about using the bus public address so I approached her personally after exiting the bus and asked, "What are we doing now and what's next on the itinerary?" I may have still been smarting from the experience of being left behind earlier in the day. So she told me to explore the shops and return in 90 minutes. I looked around for a Birkenstock outlet but there was not one at this location. Failing that, I shopped for locally-made souvenirs and found them few and far between. At a Christmas-themed store, I picked up a 2017 wood tree ornament and a small music box. I also got an Amish nativity (which Jeff joked was Orthodox Jewish, eh) and, feeling guilty about being away from home on my son's birthday, a personalized bottle opener.

I had a small book with me and after making my purchases, sat down to read. Soon enough, we were back on the bus heading to our meal at a family-style restaurant. We were way early for our late afternoon reservation. Some became vocal about their hunger and thirst, showing restrained impatience. The staff seated us and brought out pitchers of iced tea and lemonade, plates of homemade bread, applesauce and a relish that someone called "chow-chow" but was more like Giardiniera. Where condiments are concerned, of course, there are many recipes under the same name.

Now, let me say that the table manners required for family-style eating have apparently fallen into such disuse that some folks cannot call them up even on occasion. So, for instance, a man picked up a slice of bread from the serving platter, then changed his mind and put it back. I waited until someone else helped themselves to that slice before I had one. A woman passed me her glass for some iced tea but when I asked her for some lemonade she ignored me. The teens at our table did not know to pass the serving plates but they did as we asked. The same man who put back food also taught the young girl next to him to load up the middle of her mashed potatoes with corn, in other words, to play with her food. It's entirely possible that I'm too fussy about it, actually, but I was so busy passing food to others that my plate looked like this:


Starting behind, then, I was the last to finish eating. I decided either this parable is pure wishful thinking or this is hell. Still, I'm asking myself, "What's the hurry? Why the race?" For heaven's sake, enjoy the meal.

We left the restaurant and arrived at Sight & Sound just as the matinee show was exiting. We were 75 minutes early for the evening performance. Maybe if we had stalled another 15 minutes at the restaurant, it would have given the visitors at the theater's earlier show a good chance to disburse. But the restaurant has high turnover. So instead, we waited on the bus, watching the people leave on the one hand and the storm approach with its flashes of lightning on the other.

My first visit to Sight & Sound and a companion took my picture:


We were encouraged to take our seats 45 minutes before the show began to avoid any potential bottlenecks in the case of late arrivals. When they come by the busload, you know. I noted at intermission that the theater was not full.

Sight & Sound has a style all its own. I could not put my finger on it, exactly. Is the theater's facade inspired by Italian church architecture? Does the interior make one think of Egypt ... or the Holy Land? Both and yet neither, definitively.

I'm no theater critic, certainly. I'm not about to draw any comparisons between the two and a half hour live production and the four chapter biblical story. Suffice to say, there's embellishment. To suggest that Jonah's reluctance to preach in Nineveh stemmed from their having killed his father, Amittai, eh, you know, it added dimension to him. The fabricated characters, sister, mother, grandparents, who knows? In the end, these are apples and oranges. The biblical tale stands on its own and this theater production is its own work, too.

I liked the personality of their Jonah, as different as he was. The special effects were drawn out so that they could be enjoyed for all their worth. I laughed out loud when the mariners' ship hull opened to reveal Jonah peacefully asleep in a hammock amidst the raging storm. I was a bit disturbed that as soon as he was cast into the sea, the raging ceased. And when all the mariners converted on the spot, I thought Jonah could quit while he was ahead.

There was, in some subtle sense, the idea that Jonah, in criticizing the Ninevites, becomes just like them. When Jonah is running from the Lord, not even his fellow Israelites will aid him. This perturbs him. But, when he changes course, he is mystified by their overwhelming kindness. What's the message? At the end, I think it's Jesus who walks out to Jonah and proclaims that obedience brings blessing but not salvation, or something like that. So, to the oft-heard objection, "if salvation is by grace, why obey," the answer is "for the blessing." Consequently, I found the theology on display to be a therapeutic dose of psychology as motivation for practicing Christian morality. "There is something in it for you, right now!"

Nothing was particularly "anti-Catholic" in the production. In fact, on the contrary, the drawn-out forty day period of repentance and prayer that the Ninevites observe had a strong Lenten feel: the scene was repeatedly bathed in purple light and some characters wore purple and black.

On the ride back to New Jersey, the "Moses" video was put on but I couldn't make out much. We dropped off at the Manalapan church first before returning to our town, primarily because it made sense for the bus driver, but I had concern for the teens as well. I was pretty sure that few would make it to church services the following day. And they gave themselves a fine excuse.

Saturday, July 15, 2017

A consideration of how Martin Scorese's 2016 movie, Silence, shows the characters Jesuit Fathers SebastiĆ£o Rodrigues and Francisco Garupe discerning God's will:1

In the three-way conversation2 at St. Paul's College, Macau, Fr. Valignano seems to have his mind made up about the young Jesuits' mission to Japan. It's a no-go. After working through their initial, emotional reaction to possibly redirecting their vocational aspirations, the young Jesuits begin to reason with their superior, even persuade and to argue. It's their persistent agreement, being "of the same mind"3 about the mission, that leads the older Jesuit to declare that God is motivating them. So he grants permission for their trip, with plenty of warnings.

When the fathers meet Kichijiro in the waterfront tavern in Macau, Fr. Garupe appears as sad for himself as he is for the drunk fellow handpicked to be their guide. Rodrigues's attempt to entice Kichijiro through the offer of money turns Garupe off completely. "We have trusted that man with our lives," Garupe says to Rodrigues after Kichijiro has already, with abandon, plunged from the boat into the surf, to make way towards the land, towards Tomogi Beach, Japan. Fr. Rodrigues counters Garupe with a seemingly imprudent reference to Jesus' trust being even greater.4 These two are paired up to balance each other. As Kichijiro leaves them shivering and praying in the cave, Garupe supposes he's gone to betray them, a hunch that proves true.5

In the charcoal shed, while discussing options for their mission to find Fr. Ferreira, they cannot reach a workable plan. They dare to sit outside the next day in the sun and, spotting a soaring bird, Rodrigues romanticizes to Garupe, "It's God's sign," as if to say a plan will take shape. But cutting through that, Garupe spots clearly men from Goto approaching and observing them from a short distance. He physically restrains Rodrigues whose impulse is to talk with them. Is this God's will that they go to Goto?

They bring the matter before Ichizo who says he doesn't know whether the people in that village can be trusted. Rodrigues tries to woo him with some flimsy logic about those in Goto also being Christians "like us." Ichizo insists one priest stay behind and Garupe agrees instantly without argument. Ichizo's proposal makes immediate sense to him. And even though Rodrigues has an apparently fruitful time of ministry in Goto and hears something of Fr. Ferreira's whereabouts, upon his return to Tomogi Village, he learns that Ichizo has been taken hostage and returned, only to bring three more hostages back with him.

The climactic scene of discernment is the general meeting of the Japanese peasant farmers as they decide who should accompany Ichizo before the authorities. Garupe makes a declaration that turns out true for Goto: "They’ll keep coming back if we stay. They could destroy the entire village and kill you all while we hide." It is a violent, ugly scene and even though the priests' poor native language skills may not allow them to understand the debate, it's very clear that the group gangs up on the outsider, Kichijiro. One has the impression that the priests have never seen anything like it.

And when Mokichi asks the priests what he should do if asked to trample on the fumie, each Jesuit gives his own answer.6 And after the peasants are martyred and Rodrigues separates from Garupe as they "run away," as Garupe puts it, Garupe says, "They were right. If we’d left they might still be alive."

In captivity, after what appears to be a successful interrogation of his fellow peasant prisoners, Rodrigues bows in prayer, thanking the Lord for answering him. No sooner have the words left his lips than a samurai beheads the peasant Juan, Monica's husband, in the courtyard. Whenever the Interpreter asks Rodrigues if he knows who's coming, Rodrigues guesses incorrectly. He's convinced the Japanese authorities intend to undermine his will power by indulging his bodily needs, making him physically comfortable.
He treats me kindly. Three meals a day. So my body will betray my heart. That is your plan, isn’t it? That’s what you’re waiting for?

Not at all.7
Overall, Garupe's discernment, what I would prefer to call his religious instinct because he exercises it with such little apparent effort, is spot on. The only time he's wrong is in regards to assessing himself, while deprecating his own strengths. He calls himself "weak," a "coward," without any hint of false humility. Rodrigues's discernment, on the other hand, is clouded by wishful thinking and overconfidence. Even though he's teasing when he calls Garupe a "bad Jesuit," this epitomizes his general ill judgment. Objectively, Garupe is the finest of Jesuits: he prays the Anima Christi8 with the peasants, he esteems St. Francis Xavier highly; he screams, "Take me instead," as the peasants are cast overboard and he swims out to them, drowning. He even prays the rosary when he's frightened and shivering in the cave.9 Sure, Garupe is ultimately a foil to the protagonist, whether you think that's Rodrigues or Kichijiro, but I'm sure the 400 Jesuits in Rome at the private screening were all pulling for him. It's refreshing to see someone for whom Christian virtue comes so naturally even if we personally identify more closely with a Rodrigues or a Kichijiro.


1 One discerns perfectly and the other does not.
2 Or four-way as Fr. Ferreira's presence is felt via his letter and the others' remembrance of him
3 Philippians 2:2
4 However, John 2:24
5 Of course, Kichijiro betrays them both.
6 Two Jesuits, three opinions.
7 Quotations taken from the online, working script which does not exactly match the final film
8 Incorrectly attributed to Ignatius Loyola because he included it in his Spiritual Exercises
9 Like Mt. Carmel?

Saturday, June 10, 2017

Red balloons were tied to the end of each pew; the atmosphere was festive. During the brief children's message, the pastor distributed pinwheels in patriotic colors. With the price tag still attached to each, the kids blew extra hard to get them to spin 'round. Thank God the windows were open.

We're working on a version of "This Little Light of Mine," that, pardon me for thinking, would have fit the mood. But we aren't ready with it. Instead, we opened with one of the choir director's favorites, "Days of Elijah." He canceled our regular rehearsal Tuesday night for Shavuot, assuming everyone knows the Hillsong praise tune. But I don't. So I used a YouTube to learn it. When I saw him Sunday morning, I asked how the cheesecake was.

Not only was it a Sunday for communion but also there were candidates for confirmation. People around me were calling it the never-ending service. No one with any lectionary experience would volunteer to read on Pentecost, the Acts 2 passage with all those place names and nationalities. But the lector cleverly left off those tricky lines and the reading still made sense.

The youth reaffirmed their baptismal covenant and then the pastor called upon all the ordained members of the congregation to come forward to lay hands. I muttered something like, "Well, that's going to be just about everyone" and I wasn't wrong. Cindy's husband remained in the choir box with me even though the others were calling to him to join. If not for that kindness, I would have been sitting there alone.

They were to say a brief statement of faith as they laid hands but everyone left bulletins that had the wording in their pews. So rather than retrieve the bulletin and come up again, everyone just returned to their seats and said the words from there. I looked the words over and they looked harmless so I said them as well. (I participate as much as I can.) But afterwards the pastor informed us that the words come from the Book of Confessions, so maybe I should have kept my mouth shut. I really thought it was just something the pastor had cobbled together for this occasion and not anything official.

It did my heart good to sing along on what they call an "anthem," in this case Fr. Foley's "One Bread, One Body." They love the song as much as I do. I had been late enough arriving that the pastor followed in right behind. We were caught behind bicyclists and an EMS vehicle on the main road before turning in. She commented that she'd thought a car with a "Catholic Radio" bumper sticker would be heading to St. Joe's. I told her 10 o'clock Sunday is between the services there and I helped her bring in her things. The bumper sticker simply reflects my sense of irony and nothing more.

That evening, a Pentecost rally took place at an AG church outside Lakewood. I used to drive past this church every week on my way to school. At the time, the church was practically in the middle of nowhere but it's built up now. I meant to stay only long enough to get a sense of the event. I had an impression going in that met with justification. For instance, I observed a worshipper spinning in a doorway that led behind the stage, her arms out and sometimes raised, her head occasionally thrown back when she wasn't looking at her reflection in the door's glass windows. She was in the minority, however. Frankly, Pentecostalism has aged as an institution. And given its timeline, that would be expected.

I knew there would be a collection for a couple of sponsored church plants. I gave a nominal amount, not thinking about Catholics but rather about the pastors of already existing AG churches that would feel the new competition. I noted flags from around the world on display, Israel and the USA were on center. Should I anonymously donate a Vatican flag? Were they aware of the pope's Pentecost plans?