Advance Australia fair...

The best prescription for what ails the England cricket team is here, despite my doubts about the Daily Telegraph being a 'quality paper' (reference to blog entry entitled 'Hoist with one's own petard'). Fletcher and the team should follow EVERY word:

Mark Nicholas in the Telegraph

No more of this polite South England, public school cr**. It took a "Seth Efrikkan" - and one with Boer roots, at that, looking at his surname - to take the game to the Aussies. Kevin Pietersen stepped out to meet the Aussie bowling attack as if to say, "You want a piece of me? Come and get it." Finally, the fire of last summer blazed brightly, if only briefly. But it was *there*, at last...it had been smouldering, not extinguished. Pietersen's 92 runs in a match where England batters were dropping faster than swimmers in "Jaws" is nothing to sneeze at, and shows a scrappiness and strength beneath the flamboyancy that makes me glad he's with us, and has me looking forward to watching his fledgling career unfold. KP, bottle that spirit and pour it over your teammates - now!

Come on, England. You're in the country whose national motto is "Give blood. Play rugby." They invented Aussie rules. Do you really expect a gentleman's game? Do me a favour.The Aussies respect nothing more than grit, raw passion, straightforwardness and resilience. Show them that, win or lose the toss, and we'll have a series worthy of last summer. Show them indecision, defensiveness and caution and you'll be taken apart faster than one of the swimmers in "Jaws" - except it won't be as painless.

We need passion, cojones and guile in equal measure...Captain Flintoff, you need to know the Aussie batsmen and adjust field placements accordingly - frustrate them and they'll make mistakes. Don't depend solely on your bowling. Now let's get out there and kick some Aussie a***. Let's turn "Advance Australia Fair" into "RETREAT, Australia - BEWARE!"

The lion does NOT sleep tonight.

From the Gabbattoir

Day 1, Thursday am:

I knew sleeping through it was the right decision.

I knew it was bad when I asked one of my housemates if Mark, our fellow cricket-mad housemate, was still up when she went down at 6am, and she said, “No, it’s all dark and quiet down there.”

I knew it was bad when my friend didn’t text back with the night’s results straight away.

But I didn’t know HOW bad. 346/*3*? Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, people, was ANYONE aside from Freddie bothering to bowl? Reading the commentary, my jaw dropped. BELL bowled? KP?? IF YOU’RE GOING TO BOWL KP, WOULDN’T IT HAVE BEEN USEFUL TO HAVE MONTY THERE, PER CHANCE? And wouldn’t this wicket suit Mahmood? Mind you, he’d have to be MUCH more consistent. But then again…

Well, looks like the old Aussie joke is ringing too true for comfort:

“What do you call an England cricketer with 100 on the scoreboard?
A bowler.”

Earlier, I made a prediction about Ponting getting 157. Well, cross my palm with silver and ask me about your futures…

Oh, crap. Reading the previous entry, that was Langer. Sorry. I *MEANT* to say Ponting. Does that count?

And let’s hope Harmy isn’t about to go the way of Trescothick. I have an uneasy hunch that may be the case.

But test matches can turn on a 5p piece, right? So as per Scarlett O'Hara, "Tomorrow is another day..."

Only if the Aussie team all step on cricket balls whilst playing rugby for fun...or warming up...
********************************************************************
Day 2:

Aus: 609-2 dec, Eng: 53-3

I've got the routine for the Ashes down to a science now:

1. Go to bed before the action starts at midnight.
2. On waking, do NOT ask Suzanne if Mark is still up. Go straight to shower.
3. DO NOT TURN ON COMPUTER, TELEVISION OR RADIO BEFORE LEAVING HOUSE. Play with cats and read instead. Clean litterbox.
4. Whilst walking into work, people watch and appreciate natural beauty of changing leaves and Oxford traffic.
5. Get to work, make coffee, turn on computer.
6. Check emails - those with no cricket content first, Rach's last. Try not to read Rach's subject lines such as "Innings defeat, anyone?" before one really must.
7. Read Rach's email, then go to BBC or cricinfo and read day's summary - quickly, as if pulling off plaster (Band-aid to Americans).
8. Carry on with day in haze of gloominess and pessimism.
9. Rinse and repeat.

Here we go, here we go, here we go...

Ok, not the most *inventive* of titles, but I'm too nervous to be inventive right now. We're 35 minutes from the beginning of Ashes coverage and 95 minutes from the first over being bowled. Will we win the toss? Will we bat first? What's the pitch like at the Gabba? I know what the weather like is in Brisbane - I've checked http://www.weather.co.uk obsessively. It's sunny, already 23 C (73 F) at 9am local time, with a predicted high of 27 C (80 F). Good cricket weather, except for the 95% humidity - and they're ready to start cooking in that cauldron of a cricket ground. I'm also keeping an eye on the BBC Ashes countdown, which has comments from everyone from Andrew Flintoff (our captain) to people going down for the test in Melbourne come Boxing Day.

Not that I want to be in Australia, mind - too many large and/or poisonous spiders, toilets flush the other way, spring in November and so on. (Do we hear the sound of a cricket fan convincing herself, boys and girls? I think we do!) There are good things about Australia - Ian Thorpe in a Speedo comes to mind - but all in all, I'm quite happy to be home with the autumn nights drawing in, on GMT with the ability and excuse to sleep through the Test matches. Yes, you read that right. *SLEEP* through them.

Why, you ask? Because I can't bear to watch. I'm fine if England is in the field. If they're batting, I'm a wreck, waiting for wickets to fall with every ball bowled at them. Just ask Rach...at Headingley, when our opening batsmen faced the last over of the day and ran for a tight single, I buried my head in her shoulder and screamed, "DON'T DO IT!" Highlights? Great. Live, with this much pressure against the Aussies? Only if I want to die of a heart attack within the next seven weeks. It's a weird excuse that leaves my friends scratching their heads, "It matters far too much to watch it live. If I know we're screwed, I can grit my teeth and watch the highlights. If we're winning, I watch the highlights with pleasure. It's the uncertainty I can't bear."

I'm not that way with all cricket matches...if it's an ODI (One day international), no problem. West Indies? I love Brian Lara, no problem. But if the match is REALLY important? Like a crucial Ashes opening Test match? PROBLEM. As in "problem the size of Siberia".

Right, taking a peek at the Ashes countdown, just a *peek*, mind - the wicket looks hard, bouncy and fast. Like the Oval. CAPTAIN FLINTOFF, IF YOU WIN THE TOSS, BAT, MATE. AS IN B-A-T. THE VERB, NOT THE ANIMAL. NONE OF THIS NASSAR HUSSAIN CRAP WHERE YOU *FIELD* FIRST AND HAVE THE AUSSIES LAUGH YOU OUT OF THE COUNTRY. There's going to be enough trouble with Geraint "oops, I dropped Justin Langer on 5 and he went on to get 157" Jones and an uncertain Ashley Giles...rather than a Chris "caught Langer on 5 and ran Ponting out on 8" Read and Monty "destroy the middle order? No problem" Panesar. (WIN THE TOSS.)

*Deep breath* Twenty minutes till the toss and the final team announcement (BAT). Erm, maybe it's time for me to stop typing and go. to. bed. Oh, a friend has just come on MSN..that means I'll be online for at least an hour. Till after the start of the match. (WIN THE TOSS.)

Not that I'll check cricinfo or anything. Or sneak downstairs to peek at the television screen Mark will be watching avidly - except I'll be doing it through my hands. (BAT. This isn't an attempt at subliminal persuasion, I swear.)

Here we go, here we go, here we go...no matter what disagreements I have with the selection, good luck, boys, every last one of you. Do us proud.

As per Aussie Scott at the Corridor, "let's get ready to rumble" - may we get some fantastic cricket - and may the best team win. (WIN. THE. TOSS.)

Nobody expects the...church cleaner inquisition?

As I was doing my shift on the Church Lodge (read: receptionist/shop asst duty) today,
MR, a friendly acquaintance, came up to me. I apologised profusely, as I'd missed our coffee
last week, so we rearranged for a fortnight's time.

With that business out of the way, M told me the following story, leaving me helpless
with laughter:

As he was suiting up to serve the 10am mass a couple of Mondays ago, M told T(our sacristan)
that he was having coffee with me. Didn't think any more of it.

A little while later, he was in the sacristy with G, our money counter/Lodge person/cleaner,
etc...ex-civil servant (very serious, not at ALL like Sir Humphrey Appleby - whom I *adored* -
*twinkle*), when G said quite suddenly:

"I hear you're going out with *that* Irim."

[which? where? An *Irim*? Run screaming!]

M replied, "It's coffee, G. It's nothing remarkable."

G said quite seriously - he doesn't do tongue-in-cheek (as I'm sure you've deduced):

"Ooooh, you don't want to do *that*...she's a liberal; she has very heretical ideas."

Damn, that's what I should have dressed up as on Halloween.

I haven't stopped giggling since. And it got even funnier, b/c I gleefully told Br. J  (whose face
was a picture, and he promised "not to tell anyone...outside town"), Fr. D the Younger and
Br. A.

Then Fr R the Younger came in, and as I was about to tell him, he told me he had heard...
except NOW, it was "Ooooh, you don't want to MARRY HER...etc."

*Laughs hysterically*

*Pounds table*

 *Wipes eyes*

Never let it be said that religious men don't gossip as much as church women. Bless.

You know, it's really a shame I can't give in to the part of me that loves to wind people up
and go back to G with this and say,

"Me? A heretic? Well, I've been working for the Dominicans for a couple of years, and they haven't
noticed anything amiss. And if I recall correctly, they're the Inquisitors, so they should know."

He'd be mortified, poor chap.

Lead me not into temptation...

Awww, go on then. The confessional beckons...

Morning delivery...

The post was being delivered as I walked in the door to work this morning, so I cheerfully grabbed both bags - one of which was heavier than Luciano Pavarotti on a neutron star - to take upstairs for one of the brethren to sort and place in pigeonholes.

As I was about to do this, Fr. Ben, my favourite mathematician, came up to me and put out both hands to receive them. I magnanimously offered to take 'Luciano' upstairs, at which point Ben noted the tag on the bag and gleefully said, "It's for the library anyway." Giving a silent "D'oh," I schlepped it up to the library, trying not to poke Ben in the eye with the point of my golf umbrella, as he was two stairs behind me.

I made it to the library, removed the velcro band from the post office bag, and opened the box (dodging styrofoam packing peanuts, which seem as attracted to one's person as long white cat hairs are to a black pair of trousers) to discover several volumes from William of Ockham's Opera Philosophica et Theologica.

Razor sharp? Without a doubt.

Razor thin? Satan will be hosting the Winter Olympics...

We will remember them...

Recently, I've catalogued a number of books printed between 1910-1920, which have brought home what World War I meant to those who lived through it. Prefaces that spoke of the book being printed posthumously because the author, a chaplain, had died in the field. Books that were delayed. Professors talking about how in some ways, their subjects and classes seemed trivial, yet how important it was that they carried on amidst the horror around them. What is most striking is the easy self-confidence of 1912 versus the numb, traumatised tone of 1919.

It is only in my time here in England that the impact of the World Wars has really hit home - particularly World War I, since our American history classes spent ages on World War II. We barely glossed over World War I, when we joined the fray in 1917, demanded immediate payment of loans from the English, and crowed about how *we* won the war. To us, Armistice Day is simply "Veteran's Day" - a three day weekend with great sales.

Here, there are cenotaphs with the names of the war dead in every town I've visited. Oxford colleges have panel after panel of names of their war dead. From mid to late October, there are poppies on nearly every coat, reminding us of those who lost their lives defending their countries. The ceremonies begin with a national 2 minute silence at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, when the guns of World War I fell silent. On the second Sunday in November, known as Remembrance Sunday, poppy wreaths are laid at every cenotaph and most masses or Christian services are requiems for the war dead.

Tonight, the Royal British Legion holds its Festival of Remembrance with singing, music, tributes. We've seen a war widow who lost her 20 year old husband, after barely a month of marriage. We've heard Nimrod, that evocative, melancholy, noble tune from Elgar's Enigma Variations. Soon we'll hear the "Last Post" and watch poppies flutter to the ground in silent tribute to those who sacrificed themselves for us.

I would love to step sideways into a world where World War I never happened - a world where women married - or had long, happy marriages with - the men they loved, rather than lose them to the new, terrible machine guns and the green fields of France. Where being a student at Oxford or Cambridge from 1914-1918 meant the same peaceful life as being a student between 1907-1911. Where children in the early part of the last century grew up free of fear and loss, and the men (boys, really) we lost in this world were allowed to grow to maturity and fulfill their vocations. Where would we be now? There is a Jewish proverb that goes "If you kill a man, you kill a whole universe. If you save a man, you save a whole universe." By that reckoning, we lost 20,000 universes in one day at the Battle of the Somme.

Heaven forgive us.

Tomorrow is Remembrance Sunday, but as today is actually the 11th day of the 11th month, I would like to pay tribute to all those who have fought and died on the fields of war. One of my favourite poems is by Lt. Col. John McCrae, a Canadian surgeon who died in the field of meningitis and pneumonia in 1918. Inspired by the death of his friend and former student, Lt. Alexis Helmer, in 1915 during the Battle of St Julien (Second Battle of Ypres), this poem has become a staple of Remembrance Day ceremonies in the UK and beyond:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

We will bear that torch, I promise. I'm so sorry that it wasn't the war to end wars, like we promised...it's happened again and again. We have broken faith with you. We are only human, not perfect...but we have taken up the quarrel with the foe - war, poverty, disease, genocide. And one day, though probably not soon, we *will* win. Your spirit and the spirit of all those like you promise us that.

Thank you. All of you - from the first war to the most recent.

“They shall grow not old as we that are left grow old. Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them.”

We will remember them.

Hoist with one's own petard...

Hoist with one's own petard - idiom, to fall into one's own trap, to have one's plan backfire... to be injured or killed by one's own weapon.

Believed to be coined by Shakespeare in Hamlet when the Prince of Denmark ensures that the death warrant carried to the King of England by his schoolfellows, Rosenkrantz and Guildenstern, bear their names, not his:

There's letters seal'd: and my two schoolfellows,
Whom I will trust as I will adders fang'd,
They bear the mandate; they must sweep my way
And marshal me to knavery. Let it work;
For 'tis the sport to have the enginer
Hoist with his own petar;

I ran into a fabulously funny example of this yesterday whilst talking to a good friend online. All names have been changed to protect the innocent...or, rather, my friendship:

Teacher: I got shafted today in Year 12's lesson
Irim: what happened?
Teacher: a few weeks back Jasmine and Susan were looking at a newspaper
Teacher: I told them to stop and pay attention and they did
Irim: carry on...
Teacher: I said something like, "And if you are going to bring in a newspaper at least bring a quality paper, not something you get free on the tube...."
Teacher: Jasmine: "Like the Mail, sir?"
Teacher: Me: "Find a dictionary; look up 'quality'"
(Irim's aside: When reading this last line, who else had the same feeling that one gets during a horror film when watching someone go into the dark basement alone? Yeah, thought so...)
Teacher: Today.....
Teacher: the newspaper re-appears
Irim: ok
Teacher: Me: ".....and this argument is valid but unsound because...... erm, Jasmine?"
Teacher: Jasmine: "Sir?"
Teacher: Me: "Lose the paper"
Teacher: Jasmine: "But sir, it's the Telegraph.... pause"
Irim: uh oh...
Teacher: "Britain's biggest selling quality daily......"

Absolutely priceless. I couldn't stop laughing...it's exactly how I used to be with my kids.

And as for Sir? I told him he had been hoist with his own petard. His response?

Teacher: indeed
Teacher: but pleased I'd got her to buy a good paper

A teacher till the end, then.

Autumn anniversaries...

Autumn is my favourite time of year - nothing beats October to Christmas. Mellow, ethereal sunlight; nights drawing in; cosy evenings; comfort food; nesting under duvets. It also brings the best of the liturgy with it - All Souls' is my favourite liturgy of the year, in a tie with the Easter Vigil. I love the descent into the darkness, the silence, the depth of the symbolism...the stillness that leaves room for God.

Autumn also brings its anniversaries. I was talking via IM to a friend who is converting to Judaism from Catholicism, and she mentioned that she had lit a Yahrzeit candle for her brother's best friend, John Ross Fisher, who was like another brother to her who committed suicide on 13 October, 2004 whilst on leave from Iraq. She wanted to write a tribute to him; I've offered to put it here when she's finished. May he rest in peace.

Naturally, that discussion turned my heart towards personal anniversaries. On around the same date as John Ross, but 16 years earlier, my Aunty Suraiya died - the second of my mother's sisters to die that year. I remember always being a little wary of her - she always seemed so silent and preoccupied. Just occasionally, when something funny was said, that wrinkle in her brow would disappear, she'd throw her head back, and a surprisingly warm, rich laugh would come out...her face transformed completely, from that beautiful real smile to the unexpected wicked twinkle in her eye.

It wasn't till much later that I learned why - her husband, my father's cousin (the same one who betrayed his family during Partition - a real gem), used to abuse her. I remember talking to my mother about her sisters once, and she said the following (approximately):

"I remember, she used to be so beautiful. Long, thick hair - we all wanted it - and she used to laugh so much. All the time. She was so funny, always playing jokes."
"Sorry, mum, which one of you?"
"Your Aunty Suraiya."
"WAIT. Did you just say 'Aunty Suraiya'? NOT Aunty Razia?"
"Oh yes. Suraiya used to be beautiful and laugh all the time. Until she got married."

At that moment, I swore no man would do to me what he had done to her - he'd never extinguished her light, but he'd driven it into deepest hiding. Her death was a shock - she'd been ill with what seemed like a cold, and wouldn't go to the doctor. When she died, the huge shock was compounded by the fact that copies of her will were everywhere in the house - in the sugar tin, in her room, in the cupboards...

I wish I'd taken the time to make her smile more.

Early November - the 4th to be exact - brings the next anniversary...a suicide. The irony is that we both worked at hotlines in the same room - she, on the child protection hotline; me, on the *deep breath* suicide prevention hotline. Relationships get very close very quickly when you're dealing with such intense issues.

Lou was in her 50s with grown kids, and treated me as one of her own. We'd talk for hours, mostly about what I was going through at that time. She was encouraging, and she told me that no matter what anyone said, I'd move when I was ready. I remember thinking that she cared about me, not what I could do, and I treasured that.

The last time I saw her was Columbus Day weekend that year - her replacement hadn't come by the time I left, so she'd gone into the next room to work on some sewing. I quietly peeked around the door to see her intent on cutting out a pattern. I didn't want to bother her, so I didn't go to hug her as was my wont. "I'll catch her next time," I thought.

I later learned NO ONE showed up that weekend, and she had kept the Child Protection hotline manned for 72 hours straight.

When she didn't show up on the morning of the 4th to take over someone else's shift, I wasn't too worried - things sometimes cropped up. The next Saturday, I came in to the news that someone on Protection line had committed suicide. I looked up in horrified fascination and asked, "Who?" And heard, "Lou." I can't tell you what was said after that.

I'm not sure I can put into words the complex emotions that arise from the suicide of a friend. I can only begin to imagine what it is like for parents, siblings, spouses, children. It takes your world apart in a way few other events can. Shock, grief, anger, guilt, fear...I had loved her dearly, but I was so angry, I didn't go to her memorial service. Yes, I regret that to this day, and every anniversary, it haunts me. Especially when 4 November is a Saturday again.

Suffice it to say, many demons drive me - and amongst them is one that reminds me that I will never, ever miss the signs of suicidal depression in those close to me again. (I know I'm human, and I know I will, but...)

The final anniversary, 6 December, is mine alone. It involves a very difficult year, an 8th floor balcony, a leg over the railing, and the choice between leaping into the abyss or onto concrete.

I chose the abyss. Only time will tell if I made the right decision.

It was the most incredibly painful place I had ever been. There were no barriers, no defences, no illusions. Everything I'd packed away, everything I'd pretended wasn't mine, everything chasing me met me there. It's...real. But painful and frightening though it was - and still is - the abyss is an amazing place. I learned that in its...nothingness, it is the place where all degrees of freedom are present and where every creative possibility is equal. And it was the place where I could feel God along every inch of my skin, in every cell.

As per Genesis 1:2:

"And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness [was] upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters."

I came out the other side never completely belonging to this world again. That doesn't mean I don't get irimtated (as most of you reading my blog will have guessed), that my myriad faults disappeared and I became a plaster saint (pass me a bucket, someone), that I lost my acerbic humour or my earthiness, or that I go through my life in some ethereal haze (I tend to slap people who do - figuratively, of course). Most of my life goes by in the everyday normalcy that everyone else's does, for which I am profoundly grateful. But in moments of great joy or great sorrow - in the pleasure of an evening spent in the warmth and love of friendship, or during events that make me feel like I am walking through hell - as I feel completely caught up in them, as anyone would, there is a part of me that whispers, "Hold on to this; this moment will never come again...treasure it, hold it close, live it deeply," or "This too shall pass - soon it will be an hour past, then a week, then a year...you will breathe again." There's always a sense that no matter how wonderful or how awful things are, there's a pattern, a tapestry, and each thread, light and dark, is necessary. It's an indescribable feeling, and a great blessing.

Another blessing amongst the many that arose from that time is the lack of terror in the face of someone else's darkness and the ability to move towards them, instead of away from them. The darkness is home, and somehow, one finds a way to slip between the cracks into a friend's darkness to sit with them. Sometimes, there are things to say, such as, "All will be well, hang on," or "Ok, if that's how you feel, let's plan your funeral." More often than not, there is nothing to say - you can only sit there, and put your arms around them, literally and/or figuratively, even as you know the only way out for them is through - and they have to go alone. And you pray, in the words of Vienna Teng's "Lullabye for a Stormy Night":

"And I hope that you’ll know that nature is so;
the same rain that draws you near me,
falls on rivers and land,
on forests and sand;
makes the beautiful world that you’ll see in the morning,
everything’s fine in the morning.
The rain’ll be gone in the morning..."

If I'm holding a friend's sleepy toddler in my arms during a stormy night, I know when their morning will come.

With friends, one doesn't know whether their morning will come on this side of the veil or the other.

"... but I’ll still be here in the morning."

And that's a promise.

Letter Q synchronicity

I cannot thank Reiza Mara enough for introducing me to them...although my bosses may feel differently. As always, I know I'm on the right track when synchronicity strikes...as it did in today's cartoon...

Savage Chickens: Scrabble Rematch Cartoon

Or maybe that should be synqronicity.

Quixotically, quintessentially Q.

I'm off to qiq some qarse.

Quisquis, everyone.

The letter Q...

Whilst on IM with a good friend of mine, we qame up with:

Quail Qaesar,
quasar,
qretins!
Quite qute questing queen qoala quintuplet quorum
qourageously, quietly quaffs qoqoa queerly, quickly, quixotically,
quasi-qooqily qonqing qoqonuts qoyly,
qrying 'quack quack' qooly,
qooing qutesily,
qalmly qicking quavering qats,
quibbling quirkily, quintessentially,
qapering qhaotiqally, quivering...'

I'm qoming out of the qloset...I love the letter Q. I always have - when I watched Sesame Street, I was thrilled when it was sponsored by the letters q and x or z. Qs just looqed so perfeqt, with that tail in both the qapital and lower-qase versions. It's also the sound it represents, I think - partiqularly in Urdu/Punjabi and Semitiq languages - that 'k', but further baq in the throat...I just loved the way it felt, the way it sounded, how nice it was to be able to do it.

And part of it is my penchant for the underdog...q's just don't get used nearly enough, and only before 'u's - hence my being a founding member of the Qoppa resurreqtion society and my love of transliterating anything from Hebrew, Urdu, Punjabi, Arabiq with the letter 'qaf'.

Queer, I know.

But Q is...exQuisite.

Quite.

Practically perfect preaching...

This week's sermon award goes to one I didn't even hear - my friend Jan came in and asked if I wanted a copy. On hearing who had preached it, my response was "Absolutely!" I'd heard about it briefly during coffee last week and had been intrigued, but didn't want to bother said Father by asking for a copy, though I was hoping against hope that I'd get to see it at some point - or work up the courage after term to ask for a copy...and Wednesday, it falls into my lap. There IS a God.

From my clerical friends, I know that the reading that strikes fear into the heart of the most seasoned preacher is the one where Jesus speaks on divorce...what do you say that won't re-open painful wounds for your divorced/divorcing/separated parishioners, especially when the teaching of the Church is so rigid? It often inspires courage, as it did with one of the MiB up the road 9 years ago, when he preached about the "Church needing to learn"; too often, though - and understandably so, I guess - it becomes an excuse to trot out a defence of the Church's teaching on divorce. It was on this reading that Fr "Current prior, pro librarian" preached his sermon a couple of Sundays ago.

Fr. Prior is, bar none, my favourite preacher...and that says a great deal, not only b/c he is part of an Order known for its preaching and his house presents a great deal of stiff competition, but also b/c I'm a tough Catholic customer. I dislike lazy sermons, sloppy arguments, browbeating, thoughtlessness, any of that. Start off poorly and you'll either lose me or put me in a pugilistic mood - I can't tell you how many sermons I've mentally taken apart by about 6 minutes in. Never, in the years I have heard him preach, have I gone either way during one of Fr Prior's sermons. It's not because I tend to agree with him, though that probably plays a part in my feeling safe enough to open up and listen; my ideologically diametrically opposed friend and I both have hung on his every word. Nor is it because he has a rich, deep voice that is a pleasure to listen to - rivalled only by the ex-Master of the Order and one of his younger brethren now preaching and teaching elsewhere.

No. It's because his sermons remind us that things aren't always what they seem - from nightmares to language, anything and everything is an instrument in getting you to look at things from a different angle, more deeply, with a greater awareness of the nuances and complexity of our faith. Every time I hear him preach, at some point I think, "I didn't know that! How qool!" or "OOOOO, looking at it that way means NOT A and B, but Q, X and Z. Which then leads to..." His arguments are always tight and elegant, and he challenges us and shakes us from our comfort zone - but always with warmth and humour. He reminds us that we can never stay still, that we ARE a pilgrim Church, we are called to grow and move forward to God, we need to be pushed - that faith is ALIVE; it grows and changes. And that is as it should be.

So, how did he approach the ever-so-scary readings? Oh, I wish I could just type all three pages here, but I can't. So I'll try to summarise, using his words where possible. He began true to form:

"What Jesus has to say about divorce in today's gospel will strike many as a hard saying: one that might seem to justify an inflexible stance by the church in the face of the irretrievable breakdown of marriage. But we may be mistaken if we suppose that the meaning of these words is immediately obvious: that Jesus is laying down a simple and categorical law. After all, not much of what Jesus said was immediately obvious. Indeed, earlier in his gospel, Mark tells us that Jesus spoke to the people in provoking riddles, and did not speak to them except in riddles."

He goes on to say that "whatever their theories about marriage may have been, both Jews and Gentiles saw marriage as a human convention designed to achieve certain advantages..."
and moves to take that view apart by taking us back to the Garden of Eden - "God's purpose, Jesus says, is to be found in our first reading, about the making of the earth creature - adam. [in my head, I gave it the Hebrew pronunciation]
"When we turn to that narrative, the first thing we learn about this earth creature is that he is defective. That is very surprising - certainly a clue that all will not be what it seems in this story."

Now we move on to God's realisation that the earth-creature's being alone is a mistake, and he desperately makes creature after creature to ease Adam's loneliness ("We have a picture now of God rather like an anxious parent...") - sans success until he takes one of Adam's ribs and creates for him "a companion and partner who was his equal."

Wow. I mean, purely and simply, WOW. I, personally, have never heard Genesis interpreted in this way - and I've had the benefit of hearing at least a couple of interpretations from clergy of each of the Abrahamic religions. This blew me away - it made sense, at last. It was like a kaleidoscope turning and a pattern falling into place. But it got even better...

"Where our version has Woman and Man, the Hebrew has the same word in feminine and masculine form - isha and ish. And to emphasise the complete equality of the two, the chapter ends, "and the man and the woman were both naked, and were not ashamed." He then spoke of veiling - crossing Jewish, Christian and Islamic cultures, and quoting St Paul's (heinous) verse on woman being the reflection of man, he said, "The veiling of women, in other words, is a symbol of their subjection and inferiority to men. But in our passage from Genesis, the woman is naked, and not ashamed. She is no sense inferior or subordinate to the man, both are equal." It probably IS a good thing I wasn't there on the day - at this point, I might have gone up to the lectern and HUGGED him for that.

Now, we part ways briefly - but only b/c of my personal view. His argument remains solid as he says that Chava's eating the apple ruptured that equality, making her subordinate to man as per God's words. I still tend to think of the story of the Fall in archetypal terms, and original sin is still a big issue for me - but it's MY faith that's at issue at this point - his worldview and argument remain completely coherent.

And the end...well, again, I'll let him speak for himself:
"But in today's Gospel we find Jesus telling us that we must not be content with this consequence of sin, telling us that we should not just reject divorce, but the human convention that marriage became as a result of sin, and pointing us back to that first moment of equality, to the union of equal partners described in the book of Genesis. It is only a union of that kind that can be described as having been joined by God, and therefore indissoluble by man: a union in which each spouse recognises the other as an equal human being and strives for the full flourishing of that partner and companion. Such a union, and only such a union, is fit to be called a sacrament of the new creation, a participation in the work of Christ, who restores, renews and remakes out humanity so that it comes to be as God intended it to be in the beginning."

Amen. I told you it got better - if only you could read it all, b/c the story-telling in the middle is as lovely as everything I've quoted here. And if you're reading it, Father, drop me an email and I'll correct anything I've misrepresented. Just noting the craftsmanship involved in its structure is a pleasure. And if you thought this was good, you should have heard him during Holy Week. Chills up spine kind of preaching.

And to boot, I can think of few other people I'd rather have at my back if I were in real trouble. He's one of the rare people that I've trusted immediately and completely. Doesn't suffer fools gladly, but endless patience if you have a real problem. The kind of person you'd leave your 3-year-old with for an afternoon without a second thought - but you might get a gourmet cooking lesson when you take her home. Always teaching, preaching, fixing, listening...all the things good priests do.

My only reservation is that he's an Aussie that doesn't follow the cricket (hard to believe, I know), so I won't get to test out the theory that Aussies ignore a sporting contest when they're losing. So if, in the middle of the Ashes, he comes up to me and wants to talk about the frog jumping contest in Alice Springs, it won't be because we're winning; it'll be because he's actually interested in which frog won. The rugby, I suspect, might be a different matter...(*she ducks and runs*)

But seriously, Father, this one's for you - thanks for everything you do for all of us, all the time.

The Garden of Eden - a prequel, wherein God and Satan strike a deal...

God: Lucifer...Lucifer, where are you?

Satan (thinks): F*** off. You made me like this. Don't come playing all "benevolent Creator" with me.

God: Lucifer...oh, there you are. Pray tell, what are you doing?

Satan: I believe, Lord, the colloquial expression would be "eating dirt".

God: Oh yeah, sorry about that. Had to make an example of you, see. Couldn't have the others thinking they could get away with it.

Satan: Yeah, got that. Thanks a bunch. What do you want?

God: Listen, I, erm, need your help.

Satan (interested): Oh really? And what the ...um, Eden, am I supposed to do from down here? I mean, all-powerful Lord, what is it that the three aspects of you can't manage without humble little me?

God (squirming): Erm, I want to lose Adam and Eve.

Satan (eyes widening, slithering closer): REALLLLLLLY? I'm all ears, erm, I mean vibration sensors.

God: Look, they're not really meant to stay up here. There's no resistance; they need to grow. Adam's getting a beer gut and Eve is becoming vain...and as for their lack of character, oi vey. I saw it and it was good, but they're boring me to tears now.

Satan (slyly): So, what is it you want me to do? And what might I get out of it?

God: Sand dunes of dirt to eat?

Satan: Hmm. Sounds like the Ruach has deserted you. Not inspiring. Take two.

God: Hmmm. Ok, ok, you get to be a trickster - introducing an element of chaos, and a bit of temptation to keep things interesting. I'll also throw in your own real estate, with hierarchies of demons to mirror the angels you were in charge of, 'cos you'll need the help. The paperwork will be murder.

Satan: I'm listening.

God: I've already tried. I told them that they can't eat from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil.

Satan: AND THEY'RE STILL AVOIDING IT?? WHAT IS WRONG WITH THESE CREATURES OF YOURS? Send them back to the workshop and get a refund.
(suddenly comprehending) Ah.

God: Yeah. You see the problem.

Satan (thinking): Hmmm. Has the Ruach run out of ideas?

God: Free will is a sticking point here. I can't exactly cajole, coerce, strongly suggest...

Satan: So you need an external agent.

God: Whatever it takes; just get them out of the damn garden.

Satan: Right. They're your creations; any suggestions on how to approach this?

God: I'd go for the woman. She thinks for herself, which is more than I can say for that lump of clay currently developing a beer gut.

Satan: You know what that means, don't you?

God: That men will rule the earth, subjugate women and have a monopoly on organised religion?

Satan: Yes. You sure you want to do this?

God: Absolutely. It'll make things more entertaining: the women will rise up over time and take their rightful place - on top - in the bedroom and the boardroom.

Satan: Are you SURE?

God: Or men will make the human race extinct. Doesn't matter; we'll start again.

Satan: Can I be an angel again then? The brightest of them all?

God: Of course. Just remember to bow when I ask you to, next time.

Satan: My neck's a little stiff...

God raises a celestial eyebrow

Satan: Ok, ok, you're on. It's a deal. Oh, and Jesus?

The Son: Yes?

Satan: I'll see you in Hell.

The Son: Wouldn't miss it.

Racism on the underpass...

This morning, as I approached the underpass I've used for nearly nine years now, I saw something I've never seen before - a silver swastika painted on the downhill pavement that leads to the underpass. As I looked at the walls, there were silver messages of hate everywhere - "I hate Pakies me", "Kill Pakies", "F*** Pakies" [the creativity was amazing], "NF" [National Front - a far-right British party opposed to immigration and multiculturalism], "BNP" [British National Party, which "stands for the preservation of the national and ethnic character of the British people and is wholly opposed to any form of racial integration between British and non-European peoples."]

My instantaneous reaction was shock, before my lips compressed into the cold, controlled anger that meant I would detach from any horror, fury or fear that I might otherwise feel, especially two days after seeing pictures of the unspeakable horrors at Belsen. Instead, my detachment allowed me to note the absurdity of certain things:

• The swastika was left-facing - not the exclusively right-facing one used to represent the Nazi party and the BNP. If you are going to use an offensive symbol, have the grace to get it right.
  
• The irony of using a symbol that has a huge positive significance in *my* ancestral culture against me - it has been on Hindu and Buddhist temples for millenia. It is derived from Sanskrit -"su" meaning "good", "asti" meaning "to be", "ka" being a diminutive. [Or "tika" meaning "little thing" or "mark"] So a swastika means "to be good" or "good little thing". In my ancestral language, a**hole.
• As repelled as I am by the idea, Hitler adopted it in admiration of the Indian Aryans. Of which, as a Punjabi, I am one. Compare my genetic markers with yours, and you'll find that in terms of what's important in your small-minded, racist, evil idea of "racial purity of the Aryan race", I win.
• If you're going to complain about how "furriners" never learn the English language, do feel free to use it properly: the correct spelling is "Pakis" and the correct grammar is "I hate Pakis".
  
• Do you ever eat a curry? Shop on Christmas Day at your corner shop? Go to the hospital or the doctor's surgery and see a South Asian physician or nurse? Without multiculturalism, you'd have none of that.
  

Ok, I'm not so detached anymore. But nor am I going to stop walking through the underpass I have walked through for nearly nine years. I'm not giving him that kind of control, and I believe that those who graffiti don't often do. But am I going to be more careful?

You bet.

Once an addict...

...always an addict. "Hi, my name is Irim, I'm an INFJ and an Enneagram 2w1 or 8w9 depending on the day, and erm, I'm a self-discovery test addict."

In unison: "Hi, Irim"

I've been trying to limit myself, but seeing Jacquetta and Reiza Mara (you're right, CJ, I love her blog and definitely feel a kinship with her!) had done a few broke my resolve:

Your Quirk Factor: 72%

You're so quirky, it's hard for you to tell the difference between quirky and normal. No doubt about it, there's little about you that's "normal" or "average."

How Quirky Are You?

Your Element Is Water

A bit of a contradiction, you can seem both lighthearted and serious. That's because you're good at going with the flow - but you also are deep. Highly intuitive, you tune in to people's emotions and moods easily. You are able to tap into deep emotional connections and connect with others. You prefer a smooth, harmonious life - but you can navigate your way around waves. You have a knack for getting people to get along and making life a little more peaceful.

What's Your Element?

Such an INFJ addiction! Must stop... not a bad assessment though. I LOVED these two questions:

"You openly express opinions that are unusual, controversial, or just plain old strange."

Moi? Nah, never.

"You say things purely for shock value."

Wouldn't dream of it. I'm, erm, shocked that you'd suggest it.

*Pounds table* *Wipes eyes* Ah, that was good. Guess they appeal to the 8w9 in me - the "challenger/leader" with a "peacemaker" wing (go figure). What's really funny is that I looked up ideal mates for my enneagram type of the day - and it's 2w1. I should marry...myself.

No wonder I'm still single. It's all becoming so clear now...

Nobel Peace Prize

Whilst chomping down on a chicken wrap, I've just checked the BBC website for the Nobel Peace Prize winner...and wept for joy.

Many, many congratulations to the Nobel Committee for showing courage and integrity in choosing an unknown Bangladeshi who has done more for the world's poor than all the yammering rock stars and politicians put together.

I nearly wept with shock and horror when I saw that George W. Bush and John Bolton had been nominated. I rolled my eyes when Bono and Geldof were nominated, but better them than Dubya or Bolton the Bellicose. Speaking of the latter, get this (pay attention, Alanis, THIS is ironic) - Bolton was nominated by a Swedish *LIBERAL* party leader (virtual Heimlichs as needed - Per Ahlmark, left of centre, my a**) for:

"their repeated warnings and documentation of Iran's secret nuclear buildup and revealing Iran's "repeated lying" and false reports to the International Atomic Energy Agency." (Wikipedia)

EXCUSE ME? HE WAS NOMINATED FOR THE NOBEL PEACE PRIZE FOR CAUSING DISSENSION AMONGST COUNTRIES? MR. AHLMARK, DID YOU READ THE REMIT OF THE NOBEL PEACE PRIZE?

Oh yeah, you're right-wing - probably not.

Above all, shame on the Nobel committee for *accepting* such a nomination.
It's enough to make one want to pray for a meteor to strike the Earth and hit the reset button. "Human race beyond redemption, evolution: take 2."

But with God's hand centimetres from the reset button, the Nobel Committee comes to our rescue and presents the Nobel Peace Prize to Muhammad Yunus, professor of economics at Chittagong University in Bangladesh and the pioneer of microcredit - the lending of money to entrepreneurs too poor to borrow from a traditional bank. 97% of his borrowers are *women* - so often disenfranchised in the Third World. In fact, his first loan was $27 of his own money to a group of women making bamboo furniture in a nearby village who needed to repay loan sharks, since traditional banks wouldn't touch them with a, erm, bamboo pole.

Since then, his Grameen bank has made $5.1 billion in loans from 2185 branches, with a recovery rate of 98.45%. How has he managed that without collateral? By creating support groups where individuals act as supporters and co-guarantors for eachother - every group of five is loaned money, but they are denied further loans if one person defaults. His borrowers own 94% of the bank. More than half of his borrowers have pulled themselves up out of poverty by their bootstraps, doing what Band Aid and the West have failed to. He has done in practice, through the simplest of ideas and a real understanding of the culture and needs of the people he serves, what the big boys like the World Bank couldn't.

HSBC, eat your heart out - and meet the world's true local bank.

I don't say this about South Asian men terribly often, but I could HUG him. He makes me proud to be able to claim him as one of our own. And so, Professor Yunus, I raise my glass of lhassi to you and say "Masha'Allah!"

Further canon law...

"The Supreme Sacred Congregation of the Holy Office is seriously alarmed about the ever growing practice of
so called artificial onanism, which consists in having recourse to the use of various chemical and mechanical
devices to rob the natural act of generation of its power to beget new life." --Canon Law Digest, v. 5, p.
512

Initially, having taken 'onanism' in its more common current usage - i.e., masturbation - I thought, "How forward
looking of the Catholic Church! Already concerned about sex toys such as vibrators, inflatable dolls, etc. taking the
place of "lie back and think of England" sex in 1955! Wow!" Then I remembered who Onan was (look it up, says the
librarian sternly, looking over her specs), and realised that it was about artificial birth control such as condoms, etc.,
rather than, as a good male friend put it, "getting off at Gateshead." *Sigh* All that excitement of discovery for
naught...

And, unusual for canon law, I found a very ambiguous dedication at the beginning of v. 2:

"To the queen of the Society of Jesus"

To quote many of my teachers: Be specific.

Canon law

I am currently cataloguing The canon law digest : officially published documents affecting the Code of canon law, 1917-1933 by T.L. Bouscaren (Milwaukee: Bruce, 1934). He has collected a series of question & answer sessions, as well as illustrative cases, to help priests undersand and interpret canon law. It makes it more...digestible, as it were. Well, this case on p. 518 certainly did:

Null (i.e., marriage declared invalid) - AAS 13-54
"Chinese girl, 13, in 1900, married Chinese man, 30, who was semi-fatuus [fatuus: L, foolish, silly, idiotic]. Evidence showed he did not understand nature of marriage. Rota quotes Gasparri, n. 881, on degree of discretion needed for matrimonial consent. "Simple use of reason is not sufficient." Man really was an idiot. A clear case."

Sometimes, the Catholic Church is succinct, correct, and says far more about the human condition - and itself - than it ever intended to.

Arrgh...

I knew if I blogged long enough, my cool, cynical facade would be shattered. Was sent this and loved it:

We Send You Our Blessings


Schmaltzy, American, saccharine, I know, I know. But the sentiments are true, and the pictures are beautiful.

May you all be blessed.

Bahkra (goat) bemusement...

Last night, I was online with a friend I'm going to visit in London this weekend. One of the wonderful things about our friendship is that he spent several years in Pakistan (he's English), so he understands a side of me that none of my other close friends quite get, b/c they don't know the culture. I can go to him with all the family/cultural stuff I can't take anywhere else. It turns out that one of his Pakistani friends is visiting this week and we're meeting him at the pub Saturday evening.

Of course, our conversation often turns towards Pakistan, and last night was no exception. I was complaining about not being able to find anywhere lay a jumper to dry flat, especially since the cats have taken over the dining room - he had an easy but untenable solution (no, it *wasn't* the microwave - you know who you are). Then he said, "Isn't it funny how Pakistanis don't have pets?" That took me back...

It was December and I was six. My parents reckoned it was ok to take me out of school for a month, and we were in Pakistan, currently at my dhadhi's (paternal grandmother) house in Sahiwal (southeastern Punjab). One cool morning, I walked out and found a goat tethered to our neighbours' 'tree'. I went to pet it - I remember horns bumping against my upper chest/shoulders, so it must have been a billy goat rather than a nanny goat. Whilst the adults were busy, I went out and petted and talked to him - he was white with black patches all over. Over the course of the day, he stopped butting quite so hard and seemed quite happy with my fussing over him. The adults took note and let me feed him. By evening, we were best mates.

The next couple of days followed the same pattern. On the third morning or so, he was gone. I was devastated and asked everyone where he was. I was told that he had run away, and I asked if they would look for him, if he was ok. Of course, they said. (My friend's oh-so-sensitive male response at this point in the story? "Nah, it had been slaughtered.") Dusk fell, and after a day's play, I asked what was for dinner. My Baji (a term used for older female relatives such as sisters and cousins) Shaista showed me the pot she was cooking in, and I thought I saw a goat's head. I thought, "It's HIM!" No, I reassured myself, the adults wouldn't lie to me. It wasn't my goat. I ate dinner with a clear conscience, but was puzzled when I tried the meat and one of my parents said in Punjabi, "She ate it; she doesn't know." But every now and then, for the remainder of our stay in Sahiwal, I kept an eye out.

Later that night, blissfully unaware of my betrayal of my horned friend, I was being fussed over by one of my older male cousins who'd come to visit - I'm the oldest on my dad's side, but I'm one of the youngest on my mother's; Mohsin is a good 14 years my senior - and I told him, with all the gravity that only a six-year-old can muster, that I was convinced there was nothing in people's heads, b/c you could hear if someone whispered in one ear and you were at the other. "Let's try it," I suggested.

Mohsin swung me up, and I said, "Daddy, daddy, say something!" I listened intently at the other ear.
"Helloooo, Mohsin!"
"SEE!" I said triumphantly, with complete disregard for my elders and male authority. "You have nothing between your ears!"

In my defence, you may as well start as you mean to carry on.

Funeral matters, pt. 1

It occurs to me I haven't delivered a true rant yet, and I promised you one at the beginning. Here goes:

I went to a friend's funeral yesterday - not a close friend, but someone I knew from church - she was the one person who knew that the one time I got up and walked out of a sermon, that was EXACTLY what I had done, not gone to the loo. She was a lovely person who had been diagnosed with a bone disease and had spent a lot of time in hospitals when she was young, and was in some degree of pain most of the time I knew her. She grew up, married, had kids, sang for the noted Anglican choir down the road before her conversion (you could tell where they were yesterday - fabulous), converted to Catholicism 12 years ago and created her own story, as we all do. She had a wicked sense of humour and could always leave me in hysterics when describing the performance of the choir during mass. It would usually begin, "That doesn't sound like any Byrd I've ever heard..."

Her funeral yesterday was simple - it was essentially the 10am English mass (though she attended the 11am Latin on Sundays) with "Dear Lord and Father of mankind" as the opening hymn and "Soul of my Saviour" as the communion hymn, and, of course, the Order of Christian Funerals instead of the usual liturgy.

A few things ruined it for me:

1. Ok, it was the 10am mass, a public one. But IT WAS SOMEONE'S FUNERAL. As soon as you see that, PLEASE walk out, and leave the mourners to their grief. Attend a different mass, or don't attend one that day - it's not going to kill you. I always get rebuked by Catholic priests about this - "The requiem mass is to pray for the dead, so it doesn't matter, the more people who come to pray for the dead, the better." I disagree. It's as if they don't want to acknowledge the pain and grief of the survivors, almost as if they're saying the survivors SHOULDN'T grieve, and if they are and want a private funeral mass, they're being selfish or aren't spiritually advanced enough. Newsflash: Grieving is a healthy, normal, HUMAN process, and it is necessary for moving on. The funeral plays a big part in that - it's a ritual that lets us say goodbye. Priests forget that the 'stranger praying for someone's soul' isn't doing that - they're a voyeur, much the same way people rubbernecking at a traffic accident are. And as for the voyeurs who don't have the grace to sit at the back inconspicuously...

2. The person whose mobile phone went off TWICE...the second time AS SOON AS SHE REFUSED THE FIRST CALL. TURN. IT. OFF.

3. The parish regular (C.S. Lewis' secretary for SIX months and he's STILL cashing in on it) who walked in AND SAT AT THE FRONT. AND DIDN'T EVEN MOVE WHEN MEMBERS OF THE FAMILY NEEDED TO SIT ON THAT SIDE BECAUSE THEY'D RUN OUT OF SPACE ON THE OTHER.

4. The celebrant's sermon:

a. He began by mentioning her "physical difficulties", and saying that we all had physical difficulties as we get older. Maybe I'm being a bit pc, but I can't imagine that after having had a healthy youth, anything that I go through physically would be comparable to what she's been through for as long as she can remember. And I think it might have been better if the sermon had focused on *who she was*, and given us some personal anecdotes.

b. Then went on to say that her spiritual difficulties were even greater. That made me very uncomfortable. It's not my - or anyone else's - business. And even if I did know, I'm not convinced the funeral is the place to bring it up.

c. He quoted,
"Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." (Matthew 11:28)

That was in the reading. Then he said, "And I think she found that rest here, worshipping in this church." Not "the Catholic Church" or "Christ's Church" or "the one Church". Honestly, she found peace in her *conversion*, not a particular church - it's a *universal* church, and wherever she was, she'd have found her rest in that.

d. Then came the Catholic triumphalism..."People see the Catholic Church and don't like it. They see authority and are frightened by it..." and so on. I get really frustrated by Catholics (clerics in particular) singing the "Church wonderful" tune, and dismissing anyone who's critical of it as being unable to see the truth. People aren't afraid of the Church's authority - what they see, what they feel, is a Church that clutches the way a controlling parent does when they feel they've lost their child: berating, bemoaning, using guilt and tightening the rules to hold on to what is slipping through their fingers. Rightly or wrongly, what people saw in 2002 was that the first instinct of an institution pledged to protect the vulnerable was to protect itself. I don't mind people thinking the Church is wonderful - obviously I do or I wouldn't be here - but I DO mind people refusing to see its dark side and excoriating anyone who does. Just as you only truly love someone when you know and accept both their light and their darkness, you can only love an institution when you know its strength and failings.

And the funeral needed to be about the deceased and comforting the family, NOT about how wonderful the Church is, or how wrong people who don't accept the Church are - a good number of mourners were non-Catholics. That was a bit below the belt.

e. And then, when he went on about how she seemed to have been there as long as they had been at the parish, he said, "We've been here 16 years, and now I can't remember when she converted..." and looked to one of the chief mourners to give him the answer, "12." Easily solved - look up the records when you're writing the sermon.

He needed to have taken the time to craft a thoughtful, pastorally sensitive sermon.

But there was a real moment in all this: Jim, who helps put the hymn books away after mass, and used to carpool - and giggle like mad - with her every week. When he choked up during the first reading, I welled up. Afterwards, as I headed back to work, and passed him watching them put the coffin in the hearse, pale and set apart, eyes bright with unshed tears. I touched his shoulder and got a soft, "How are you, love?" and hugged him impulsively, asking, "How are YOU?"
"Fine, I'm fine."
And I hugged him again, saying words I never use unless I mean them: "Love you."
As I walked away and looked back over my shoulder, he was crying.

Aspects of the funeral may have left me cold or angry b/c of what I saw as other people's selfishness on a day that demanded self-giving. But it didn't matter - God was there, in the person of someone who had loved her unconditionally.

Requiescat in pace.