Saturday, November 21, 2009
For the past week, the conversation has been that Chris wanted to attend church with us in order to visit Dunkin' Donuts afterwards.
As we drove past the former church building, in demolished rubble, Chris reasoned aloud that the building was torn down because "church is so bad."
Apparently the last acceptable prejudice is innate.
Kenny asked whether the old cemetery would be moved and I said it would be quite an undertaking to do it right. That comment took us intentionally to Spielberg's Poltergeist for an instance where relocating a cemetery was done wrong.
We happened to arrive at the active church building at same time as a classmate of Chris's, another kindergartner. I think he found that interesting. On the way into the building, my first communion candidate cautioned Chris about the service: "It's a little weird at first but you'll get used to it."
My boys have no qualms about weaving in and out of crowds so I'm quickly left behind. Kenny even maneuvered around two girls with their mother in order to get ahead of them to hold the door for them. He wasn't even aware of how he got in front of them.
During the singing, Chris followed along in the hymnal. He may find musical notation interesting or simply likes singing.
The Gospel reading was Mark's mini-apocalypse1, so the homilist said "hell" a number of times. My first communion candidate was scandalized and objected to me on the priest's use of "bad words." As this was a children's mass, the younger kids had been ushered out before the readings to the church basement for, presumably activities on the readings suited for children. I reminded Tim that he could have gone downstairs with them if he wanted an easier time of it but that perhaps Father presumed only adults remained in the sanctuary. There was one other time I remember the homily digressing into violent descriptions of crime but, then again, the children were supposedly all downstairs.
I tend to look out the windows during the sermon and saw a large group of well-dressed people entering with an infant in a carrier. I didn't expect them to join us upstairs but they did, even though there were seats downstairs. And it happened that they made for a pew that appeared vacant only to discover two small boys ducked down, sitting on the kneelers. The group of them entered the pew from both ends and my two boys had no way to escape. I was pretty embarrassed but it was also very funny. You think they learned their lesson?
So, in order to accommodate everyone, Kenny had to scooch out of our pew into another pew by himself with another family. He wasn't too happy about that but I told him to make room for the other people.
And then during communion there was quite a bottleneck on the stairs from so many people. I found myself saying in response to my kids' complaints about the crowd: You should be happy church is so packed. But it wasn't very convincing, even to me.
1 cf. iMonk's sermon on Mark 13, via.
As we drove past the former church building, in demolished rubble, Chris reasoned aloud that the building was torn down because "church is so bad."
Apparently the last acceptable prejudice is innate.
Kenny asked whether the old cemetery would be moved and I said it would be quite an undertaking to do it right. That comment took us intentionally to Spielberg's Poltergeist for an instance where relocating a cemetery was done wrong.
We happened to arrive at the active church building at same time as a classmate of Chris's, another kindergartner. I think he found that interesting. On the way into the building, my first communion candidate cautioned Chris about the service: "It's a little weird at first but you'll get used to it."
My boys have no qualms about weaving in and out of crowds so I'm quickly left behind. Kenny even maneuvered around two girls with their mother in order to get ahead of them to hold the door for them. He wasn't even aware of how he got in front of them.
During the singing, Chris followed along in the hymnal. He may find musical notation interesting or simply likes singing.
The Gospel reading was Mark's mini-apocalypse1, so the homilist said "hell" a number of times. My first communion candidate was scandalized and objected to me on the priest's use of "bad words." As this was a children's mass, the younger kids had been ushered out before the readings to the church basement for, presumably activities on the readings suited for children. I reminded Tim that he could have gone downstairs with them if he wanted an easier time of it but that perhaps Father presumed only adults remained in the sanctuary. There was one other time I remember the homily digressing into violent descriptions of crime but, then again, the children were supposedly all downstairs.
I tend to look out the windows during the sermon and saw a large group of well-dressed people entering with an infant in a carrier. I didn't expect them to join us upstairs but they did, even though there were seats downstairs. And it happened that they made for a pew that appeared vacant only to discover two small boys ducked down, sitting on the kneelers. The group of them entered the pew from both ends and my two boys had no way to escape. I was pretty embarrassed but it was also very funny. You think they learned their lesson?
So, in order to accommodate everyone, Kenny had to scooch out of our pew into another pew by himself with another family. He wasn't too happy about that but I told him to make room for the other people.
And then during communion there was quite a bottleneck on the stairs from so many people. I found myself saying in response to my kids' complaints about the crowd: You should be happy church is so packed. But it wasn't very convincing, even to me.
1 cf. iMonk's sermon on Mark 13, via.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
His talk cracks me up. Eatontown was my church, then. And my theater.
No, I don't recognize any protesters.
via View Askew
No, I don't recognize any protesters.
via View Askew
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Mom: Kenny, what are you guys doing?
Kenny: Riding.
Dad: What day is it?
Kenny: It's a beautiful day.
Mom: It is a beautiful day. It's gonna be a nice night.
Dad: Is it a holiday?
Kenny: Um-hum.
Dad: Is it a kids' holiday?
Kenny: Um-hum. It's Halloween? It's Halloween now?
Mom: Is it? Um-hum. So what are you doing?
Kenny: Riding.
Dad: What do you do on Halloween?
Kenny: Get candy.
Dad: What do you say when you go up to the door?
Kenny: 'Trick or treat' and I push the ding-dong bell.
Mom: And then after they give you the candy, what do you say?
Kenny: 'Trick or treat' and 'Thank you.'
Mom: What are you?
Kenny: A dinosaur.
Mom: Are you a friendly or a scary dinosaur?
Kenny: Friendly.
Mom: Uh-huh. What's your brother?
Kenny: A hunny pot.
Mom: That's sweet, isn't it?
Dad: What's a friendly dinosaur say?
Kenny: Roar.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
I made up this week's homework with a vengeance. First off, the Sunday Gospel was from the chapter so I distributed Dr. Koch's reflection to everyone during lunch. The first question in the homework was to look up "blessed" in a dictionary. So I made copies of Kittel for everyone, because I'm a geek with too much time on my hands. Sometimes. And they actually showed interest in reading it. God bless them.
The next homework question went something like this: "What did Jesus base our blessedness on?" And the first two answers given by ladies in the small group were along the lines of "upon the good things we do, upon our righteousness." I wanted to curl up and die, because my answer was the exact opposite: our emptiness. Not only that, but in response to posting a link to Dr. Koch's reflection on Facebook (because it mentions "virtue"), my friend, Rev. Searl, said the article "smacks of works-righteousness." Um-hum.
The first part of the video, I'd have to say, Cavins struck me as "anointed." It's hard for me to say that about anybody. But that was my impression. "Anointed" or not, it was at least clear to me that Cavins is passionate about the Beatitudes.
During lunch, I was very uncomfortable, of course. This isn't my parish ... or even my diocese. I was looking at my watch constantly because the kids had a half day. But the single fella in the group was asked about his Bible knowledge and he said he's been studying the Bible for a few years now and just started reading Revelation. I was interested in hearing him say more about that but the leader used that as a way to ask me about my studying. She knows I study at Princeton Alliance, so she asked me about their approach to the Bible. I demurred talking about them. But she persisted, "They are fundamentalists, aren't they?" and I said, "Sure. Sure, they are."
It was an unfair question, a loaded question and especially ironic because fundamentalism is a matter of degree. I almost reminded her of that. What she couldn't know is that, while I consider just about everyone a biblical fundamentalist, there's nothing pejorative 'bout it.
Alright, I should dig out Fr. Witherup's book and read it again.
The next homework question went something like this: "What did Jesus base our blessedness on?" And the first two answers given by ladies in the small group were along the lines of "upon the good things we do, upon our righteousness." I wanted to curl up and die, because my answer was the exact opposite: our emptiness. Not only that, but in response to posting a link to Dr. Koch's reflection on Facebook (because it mentions "virtue"), my friend, Rev. Searl, said the article "smacks of works-righteousness." Um-hum.
The first part of the video, I'd have to say, Cavins struck me as "anointed." It's hard for me to say that about anybody. But that was my impression. "Anointed" or not, it was at least clear to me that Cavins is passionate about the Beatitudes.
During lunch, I was very uncomfortable, of course. This isn't my parish ... or even my diocese. I was looking at my watch constantly because the kids had a half day. But the single fella in the group was asked about his Bible knowledge and he said he's been studying the Bible for a few years now and just started reading Revelation. I was interested in hearing him say more about that but the leader used that as a way to ask me about my studying. She knows I study at Princeton Alliance, so she asked me about their approach to the Bible. I demurred talking about them. But she persisted, "They are fundamentalists, aren't they?" and I said, "Sure. Sure, they are."
It was an unfair question, a loaded question and especially ironic because fundamentalism is a matter of degree. I almost reminded her of that. What she couldn't know is that, while I consider just about everyone a biblical fundamentalist, there's nothing pejorative 'bout it.
Alright, I should dig out Fr. Witherup's book and read it again.
Sunday, November 01, 2009
The one year that I taught confirmation candidates, I wrote up worksheets for them to use for the readings at Sunday mass. Only a couple of students ever turned in the work. I used to reissue the worksheets to the ones that didn't with the Sunday Gospel reading reference scrawled across the top of the page for them to at least look up on their own after the service. Very few did.
So when a teenager arrived late to mass this morning with paperwork and during the sermon picked up a missal to fill it out, I had an idea of his task. But he hadn't mastered missals so I handed him mine, open at the ribbon marker and pointed out the readings on the page. He took it and worked from it. Then as the children took their envelopes downstairs - we were in the choir loft - he saw his graceful exit and left.
Kenny was fiddling with one of my rosaries during the homily and, as he has many times, he asked me what the initials stand for. So I told him. Then I picked up my missal and turned to the Palm Sunday Gospel readings, but none of them reported the complete expression. I thought to myself, "Wouldn't you know, we've taken the minority report and made it the norm." So I turned to the Good Friday liturgy and found the full expression in the Fourth Gospel:
And the NAB footnotes John 19:19 as follows:
honor, power, and might."
So when a teenager arrived late to mass this morning with paperwork and during the sermon picked up a missal to fill it out, I had an idea of his task. But he hadn't mastered missals so I handed him mine, open at the ribbon marker and pointed out the readings on the page. He took it and worked from it. Then as the children took their envelopes downstairs - we were in the choir loft - he saw his graceful exit and left.
Kenny was fiddling with one of my rosaries during the homily and, as he has many times, he asked me what the initials stand for. So I told him. Then I picked up my missal and turned to the Palm Sunday Gospel readings, but none of them reported the complete expression. I thought to myself, "Wouldn't you know, we've taken the minority report and made it the norm." So I turned to the Good Friday liturgy and found the full expression in the Fourth Gospel:
Pilate also had an inscription written and put on the cross. It read, "Jesus the Nazorean, the King of the Jews."The thing you're looking for is always in the last place you look.
And the NAB footnotes John 19:19 as follows:
The inscription differs with slightly different words in each of the four gospels. John's form is fullest and gives the equivalent of the Latin INRI = Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum. Only John mentions its polyglot character (John 19:20) and Pilate's role in keeping the title unchanged (John 19:21-22).Did I catch much of the homily? Yeah, it was about love. God loving us enough to want us to be saints and us loving God enough to want to be what he made us to be. I guess it came from the second reading. In the first reading, I pointed out to Kenny that the heavenly worship of God has these seven attributes: "Blessing and glory, wisdom and thanksgiving,
honor, power, and might."
I was doing my Precepts homework at the tennis center while the boys took their lesson. A woman I know from the boys' old school asked what I was reading and I told her Genesis. She puzzled so I clarified, "Genesis, from the Bible." She asked me whether I'd considered parochial school for the boys and I confessed, "Several times but the nearest schools are still too far." Her children attend one but her dilemma this year is that it's a sacrament year. "We aren't Catholic. Well, not practicing. We attend a non-denominational church." But her child is feeling left out and she wants to petition the school to allow the child to participate in the rite.
After I got over the initial shock of a non-Catholic wanting to make their First Holy Communion, I thought about the matter. As a mother, I understand the emotions involved. It may not matter much that other children in the grade are likewise affected. It's probably a moot point because the school has its policies. The mother is willing to re-baptize her children Catholic in order to qualify them for the sacrament. I wouldn't think their Christian baptism a hinderance.
I admit that if the shoe was on the other foot and I had my kids in, say, a Methodist day school, I would want them to participate in whatever rites the school observed. Most schools make families sign agreements saying they support the school's policies. But even so, it's inevitable that a family has little choice than to send their children to a school with which they aren't in complete agreement. And, as this mother said, the school accepted her non-Catholic children into the academic program and they receive religious instruction.
Well, I can't imagine she'll prevail. But I think I'll ask around and see what the outcome might be.
After I got over the initial shock of a non-Catholic wanting to make their First Holy Communion, I thought about the matter. As a mother, I understand the emotions involved. It may not matter much that other children in the grade are likewise affected. It's probably a moot point because the school has its policies. The mother is willing to re-baptize her children Catholic in order to qualify them for the sacrament. I wouldn't think their Christian baptism a hinderance.
I admit that if the shoe was on the other foot and I had my kids in, say, a Methodist day school, I would want them to participate in whatever rites the school observed. Most schools make families sign agreements saying they support the school's policies. But even so, it's inevitable that a family has little choice than to send their children to a school with which they aren't in complete agreement. And, as this mother said, the school accepted her non-Catholic children into the academic program and they receive religious instruction.
Well, I can't imagine she'll prevail. But I think I'll ask around and see what the outcome might be.
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