Dear Elliot . . .

Pray for Your Brothers and Sisters in the Philippines

There’s more in-depth information (and more pictures) regarding this catastrophic flooding at the Catholic Seeking blog.

Catholic Grocery Store Owner Under Attack for Displaying Crucifix

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The price you've got to pray…

My earliest memories of prayer are wonderful.

Mom would sit on the edge of my bed and lead me through—if memory serves—an Our Father, a Hail Mary, a Glory Be, and a prayer for vocations (I’ve often wondered if that vocations prayer was my Dublin-born godmother’s idea, since she always wanted me to be the first Irish pope…the fact that I’m second generation American notwithstanding).

When I eventually left home to venture the two blocks uphill to grade school, my prayer experiences got a little less rosy.

You know what I mean. Any Catholic school kid who ever went to confession can remember slogging through a handful of Hail Marys and Our Fathers as if they were a cold pile of mashed potatoes Mom was forcing you to eat.

“Hey, what happened to Joey? I haven’t seen him around.”

“He’s doing ten to twenty.”

“Years?”

“Worse. Hail Marys.”

How can I say such a thing about the Hail Mary? Easy.

Hand a rosary to your average cradle Catholic who has grown up being told, essentially, “You’ve been bad. Now, you have to say prayers.” and see how excited he gets. He doesn’t see the rosary as a beautiful meditation. He sees it as five consecutive sentences of ten prayers each (not to mention the between-decades stuff).

Who ever came up with the idea of prayer as punishment? Granted, it takes some serious thought to figure out constructive penances for grade school kids, but setting up our most beloved traditional prayers as a price to be paid just doesn’t seem right.

Reinforcing it for the rest of our lives doesn’t seem right, either, especially when adults are capable of much more in the way of sacrifice.

Here’s something the Catechism of the Catholic Church says about penance, “It can consist of prayer, an offering, works of mercy, service of neighbor, voluntary self-denial, sacrifices, and above all the patient acceptance of the cross we must bear” (CCC 1460).

Not to sound all revisionist like the Jesus Seminar, but I just can’t bring myself to believe that the Our Father was intended as a cross to bear. There are a good number of options listed there, yet we still go to confession only to be rapped spiritually over the knuckles with prayer most of the time. In addition to ruining perfectly good prayers, it lets us off the hook much too easily.

Of course, maybe we—and even some well meaning souls who taught us—have all missed the point of those prayers. Maybe we should look at them less as old, cold mashed potatoes and more as a way to wallow in the presence of the Father we’ve just renewed our relationship with.

After all, the Catechism also says, “Prayer is the life of the new heart” (CCC 2697).

"Tisk, Tisk, Tosca"

It was a dark, but wiggly, night…

It’s been something of an odd twenty-four hours, at Chez Moore. My brother-in-law, his wife and two kids arrived for a visit yesterday and promptly took ill.

Before you get the wrong idea, I do not normally have this effect on my in-laws.

My nephew was sick the day before they arrived but had, quote, “a miraculous recovery,” inspiring enough parental confidence to make the trip.

Last night went well, as did this morning…but as the day progressed, things changed.

At this writing, my niece is in bed doing her best impression of a damp rag, my brother-in-law has requested a stool and sequestered himself in a bathroom, my sister-in-law is stumbling about weakly as her strength seeps back, and my little nephew is happy as a clam, oblivious to the fact that he has inoculated those who love him most with something icky.

I suppose my son can look forward to a day off from school sometime this week, courtesy of his cousins—albeit an uncomfortable one. Let’s just hope it doesn’t hit him and my wife on the same day.

If it hits ME, well…I’ll probably be quite a crybaby about it, giving my wife those annoying glances that say, MY family never brings a pox upon our house.

But of course, God always brings greater good out of bad situations. Sitting here tonight, we watched one of my nephews favorite DVDs, featuring The Wiggles—one of the most welcome contributions of all time to the world of children’s entertainment.

That DVD took me back to many wonderful hours of hanging out with my son back in the day, enjoying The Wiggles on video, playing their songs for him on my guitar, singing along with their recordings in the car, and even catching them live from first row seats.

We even waited for them like groupies near their tour bus to meet them after the show. For the record, they are VERY nice guys.

One of the most impressive things about our pre-school days as a Wiggles family was a video called “Wiggly, Wiggly Christmas,” which contains a song called “Unto Us this Holy Night.” It’s a great song and was accompanied by a traditional Nativity pageant.

That’s right…in this world of watered down “holiday” celebrations, The Wiggles came from Australia to remind America that Christmas is at heart, a birthday party for a baby named Jesus.

A brief look on the web will tell you that at least one of The Wiggles is a devout Catholic, which makes me happy. Whether any of the others are or not, they have not only stood up for The Birthday Boy, but they have done marvelous things for children…and for parents who have had the pleasure of joining their kids in a wonderful, wiggly, relationship-deepening experience.

Days of wine and poses…

Just enjoyed a nice glass of wine with a pretty decent pizza…which reminded me of the great privilege Jesus gives to wine every day during every Mass said throughout the world…which reminded me of a piece from issue 6.1 of Envoy:

When my wife and I first met, she was in the wine business. No stranger to the finer things in life, myself, I took her to an Irish restaurant and bar on Third Avenue in New York on our first date—a place that boasted a selection of no fewer than seven wines.

I’ll never forget being handed the wine list that night. Short thought it was it might as well have been written in Aramaic. Never before had I navigated a selection of wines in the presence of a woman who knew wine. The only thing I was confident about was that my standard routine of thoughtfully examining the cork and pretending to know what that first dribble out of the bottle was supposed to take like was NOT going to fly.

After several very long seconds, I turned the choice over to Mary Ann and had a dating experience most men only dream about having. She saved me money! Declaring every selection wildly over-priced, she suggested that we forget about ordering wine.

What a woman!

Now, don’t take that story to mean that every wine with a reasonable price is worth drinking. There is such a thing as too cheap to possibly be any good.

For various unpleasant reasons, I once spent a lot of time consuming large amounts of a particular jug wine. I had long since put it aside when Mary Ann came along, but the damage had been done—not to my liver but to my tongue. I couldn’t have told you the difference between a cab and a Tab.

I shiver at the sight of those jugs nowadays. In fact, I shivered that very shiver in the sacristy of my parish church recently while preparing to serve as lector for Mass.

There it sat, that familiar old jug, its noxious contents having been poured out for use at Mass.

What about truth in advertising? I thought. About the closest that stuff comes to being the work of human hands is when somebody puts it on the shelf at a liquor store.

I was so appalled that I couldn’t get the thought out of my mind as Communion approached. How could I possibly receive properly when I was certain to wince while drinking from the chalice?

And what about poor Jesus? I only had to drink the stuff. He had to transubstantiate it. Nice way to treat our savior.

Eventually, I approached the altar, took the chalice and drank. The reality of what I was doing struck me at the same time and I didn’t wince. I experienced an unexpected sweetness and turned back toward my pew, startled.

It was like Cana all over again.

As is his habit, God had done something great with something lowly. At the moment of consecration that wine was turned from something graceless into something full of grace. Its not-so-subtle flavor was still there—but it was eclipsed by the sweet sacrifice of the Eucharist.

Changing that wine into himself was an incredible act of humility for our Lord. Of course, changing a bottle of even the finest wine into himself is every bit as humble.

I only wish I could have been within a light year of such humility that day. My gripe, of course, had more to do with my past failings than with the quality of the wine. But instead of shoving my insignificant personal meanderings aside to bask in the glimpse of heaven that Holy Communion offers, I chose to indulge myself in a pointless riff on cheap wine.

But hey, what’s the point of being a cradle Catholic if you can’t act like you belong in a cradle once in awhile?

Yo, Sanctissima!

Did you know that there’s a Catholic rapper? I didn’t know that there’s a Catholic rapper, but apparently he’s a very nice guy, and he needs our prayers.

That got me wondering what other uniquely Catholic entertainers there are out there—specifically comics (as an alleged writer of humor, it’s a subject that interests me).

My search led me to a comedian named Jim Brogan and a comedienne named Sally Edwards.

As my search continued, the ladies took the comedy lead as Judy McDonald was added to the list.

But then I remembered that my friend, Patrick Coffin (host of Catholic Answers Live) recently interviewed a guy named Carl Koslowski.

I’ll leave comedian/comedienne count at 2-and-2. Perhaps you know of more?

A mild night is calling…

It’s that time of the week when I sit around waiting for two things: 1) to leave for my late-night adoration hour, 2) for some coffee to brew so I can keep myself by from having a Matthew 26:40 experience during my late-night adoration hour.

If you can’t guess what that passage Matthew 26:40 is, you’ll have to look it up yourself.

I did.

A few times over the course of my guest-blogging gig here at Pat’s Place, I’ll be sharing some of what I’ve written for Envoy magazine over the years. As this is adoration night, I’m reminded of a column from issue 5.6 of Envoy—it was called “Of Sounds and Silence.”

And it went something like this…

I want to tell you about some beautiful noises and beautiful silences.

The first noise came from a young couple sitting behind my family at a recent Mass. They appeared to be dating—a deduction based solely on the manner in which I had seen them walking toward the church just before Mass. It was one of those glance-at-each-other, where-in-the-world-do-I-put-my-hands walks that makes even veteran adults look like shy teenagers.

I doubt either of them cared much about reaching a destination, but at Mass they arrived, still enjoying each other’s company but forced to join the rest of the world for awhile.

As the first hymn began, they lifted their hymnals and joined in. The girl sang pleasantly, but the guy was at least three pews away from the melody (in musical terms, that’s about two more pews away than Neil Young is on any given occasion). But listening to the guy was beautiful. He didn’t care what he sounded like. He just wanted to sing.

And let me tell you (attention, gentlemen), the lady friend in this equation smiled sweetly on him throughout the proceedings, as they hunted for hymnal pages together. She obviously loved singing in church and appreciated the effort he was making.

Now, maybe this fellow was just using his hymnal as a ploy to get on his lady fair’s good side. To that I say, “Good for him!” Many people have been brought to Christ by the beauty of creation. And if memory serves, this young lady was quite a credit to creation.

He wouldn’t be the first man drawn to Mass out of his passion for a desirable woman, only to discover a passionate faith he never thought possible. If the way to a man’s heart is trough his stomach, then maybe the way to his soul is through his heart.

The second noise I want to tell you about started out funny before it became beautiful. At Communion one Sunday, our organist launched us all into a spiritual.

Few things are funnier than a church full of white suburbanites making their way through a black hymn, but we actually did ourselves fairly proud (even if we did sound a little like the Pat Boone Chorale singing the Mahalia Jackson Songbook). And the noise was beautiful. There was sincere worship going on during that hymn—in no small part because spirituals are so wonderfully singable.

Now, for the beautiful silences.

The first one happened on All Saints Day at a church near my office, when the celebrant miscalculated the length of his chasuble and knocked over a full chalice while raising his hands.

His reaction was great. Judging by the face he made, and the way he clenched the offending hand into a fist, I think he was desperately trying to avoid slipping a few decidedly un-liturgical words into the Mass.

Father recovered just fine, but not before a far more interesting recovery happened among the pews. When that chalice fell, there was a gasp in every corner of the church, followed by a few seconds of very telling silence.

As held breaths were released, you could just about hear the collective thought, “Thank God, it was still only wine when it fell.”

I’m sure I could have found people to disagree with me on any number of things Catholic in that church, but the thought of the Real Presence spilling wasted onto the altar registered as universally terrible to a diverse gathering of sins ad daughters of the universal church.

That was nice.

You know what else is nice? The silence I was enjoying while contemplating all of these occurrences recently…in the presence of Our Lord during Eucharistic adoration. It’s the most beautiful silence you’ll ever hear.

Go there soon. Bring all of your own random experiences and ask the Lord to make sense of them, to show you himself in them. You’ll be surprised how many spiritually significant things happen during what seems like very, very ordinary time.

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