We try but fail to get to St. Matt’s for ten o’clock mass. We run into streets blocked off everywhere trying to get out of our neighborhood. There’s some sort triathalon or race or something blocking everywhere.

Getting close to ten we just ditch the car on D Street across from the Capitol Police headquarters, which is just a block away from St. Joseph’s. We see on the board that they’ve got a 10:30 a.m. mass. Since we’ve got time, we walk the few blocks south to St. Peter’s. They’ve got a 10:30 as well. But we really like St. Joe’s so we head back.

Monsignor Antonicelli presides, although Deacon Bockweg handles the homily after reading the Gospel. He talks about the new Harry Potter book coming out soon, how everyone is waiting for it, wanting to know how the story continues. He likens it back to the movie serials he used to watch as a kid, specifically Hopalong Cassidy. And before that Dickens et. al. used to publish serials. And before that …

Well, before that, how about the ending of the Gospel of St. Luke and the beginning of Acts? Those are two of the readings we have today. Traditionally attributed to the same author, St. Luke’s Gospel ends with and the Acts of the Apostles begins with the Ascension. Except that, obviously, the story continues in Acts. Even better of course are the two men who grab the Apostles and ask, “Men of Galilee, why are you standing there looking at the sky?”

I love that. Hey, dummies, quit staring up at heaven. There’s work to be done down here.

Work.

Acts.

We get beatitudes this week. Again, what with the Year C thing, they’re from St. Luke, so we get four. St. Matthew has these four and four more. But those are for a different year. The four that the two gospels share are:

St. Luke #1: Blessed are you who are poor, for the kingdom of God is yours.
St. Matthew #1: Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

St. Luke #2: Blessed are you who are now hungry, for you will be satisfied.
St. Matthew #4: Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be satisfied.

St. Luke #3: Blessed are you who are now weeping, for you will laugh.
St. Matthew #2: Blessed are they who mourn, for they will be comforted.

St. Luke #4:

Blessed are you when people hate you, and when they exclude and insult you, and denounce your name as evil on account of the Son of Man. Rejoice and leap for joy on that day! Behold, your reward will be great in heaven. For their ancestors treated the prophets in the same way.

St. Matthew #8:

Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when they insult you and persecute you and utter every kind of evil against you falsely because of me. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward will be great in heaven. Thus they persecuted the prophets who were before you.

I would have thought that I’d have easily said that I prefer the St. Matthew beatitudes. Heck, when I think of beatitudes, I pretty much think only of St. Matthew. It’s only here now that I’m appreciating the St. Luke. I like how St. Luke has Jesus addressing the crowd in the second person, saying you directly to them, rather than the third person in St. Matthew.

And I like how St. Luke has it simply as poor and hungry, rather than poor in spirit and hunger and thirst for righteousness. I like Jesus addressing the physical needs of the crowd when he’s giving them spiritual comfort.

And while St. Matthew has it as those mourning will be comforted, St. Luke has the more primal, more powerful, you who are weeping, you’re not just going to be comforted, but this is such good stuff that you’re going to actually laugh.

This being Year C, we’ve got St. Luke, who has it thus: Jesus said to Simon, “Do not be afraid; from now on you will be catching men.”

It’s in both St. Matthew and St. Mark as “Come after me, and I will make you fishers of men.” I kinda like it better that way, being fishers of men, rather than catching men. Yeah, boy, that catching men sounds really weird to my ears.

The first reading is this really cool scene from Isaiah. First cool thing about it is that it’s set in the year King Uzziah died. I don’t know how we count that year, a couple millenia later, but it was certainly a very practical way to mark time for the people at that time, any particular year being the nth year of a certain king’s reign, or the year some particular king died.

Next cool thing is, when Isaiah sees the Lord, he also sees all these seraphim, who cry out to each other: Holy, holy, holy is the LORD of hosts! All the earth is filled with his glory! And that’s the Sanctus right there, what we recite right at the beginning of the Eucharistic Prayer, right before we kneel. That’s where we get it, from Isaiah.

(Interestingly, the Lectionary reading omits part of the second verse from this chapter of Isaiah, where he describes the seraphim: each of them had six wings: with two they veiled their faces, with two they veiled their feet, and with two they hovered aloft. The reading is chapter six, verses one through eight, minus this bit from verse two. I wonder why. Not that it’s especially necessary to the narrative, or to the lesson I guess we’re supposed to take from it. But it’s some good description. Nothing wrong with a little description, is there?)

Finally, what’s cool is that Isaiah freaks out about having seen the Lord. Woe is me, he cries. I am doomed! Apparently he’s doomed because he’s a man of unclean lips, living among a people of unclean lips. So then, to dispatch this problem, one of the seraphim flies at him with a burning ember from the fire, holding it carefully with tongs, and he touches Isaiah’s mouth with the burning ember, removing the wickedness & purging the sin. I just love the whole scene, where this heavenly creature has six wings and can fly but needs tongs to pick up something hot. And how the cure, the glowing charcoal briquette, is such a primitive thing, like when Jesus cures the blind man’s eyes with mud that’s he’s mixed from spitting on the ground (as recounted in another great, characteristically cinematic and specific scene from St. John).

And then Isaiah’s ready. The Lord asks, “Whom shall I send?” And Isaiah’s practically raising his hand and bouncing out of his seat, all “Me! Me! Pick me!”

Building things today, in the first reading and the psalm anyway. And the recessional hymn.
The first reading starts right at the beginning of Jeremiah, with the Lord this really all-powerful force and poor Jeremiah just not ready for it.

The word of the Lord came to me, saying:
Before I formed you in the womb I knew you,
before you were born I dedicated you,
a prophet to the nations I appointed you.

How scary is that? It’s not said, but it sure is understood, when something exists before you do, then it’s going to exist long after you too. How do you relate to something or someone like that?

Not that Jeremiah is especially unique in this, being destined for something from the very womb. Oh, and not just Christ himself, either. There’s Isaiah (Isaiah 49:1 – The Lord called me from birth, from my mother’s womb he gave me my name), St. John the Baptist (Luke 1:15 – He will be filled with the holy Spirit even from his mother’s womb), and St. Paul (Galatians 1:15 – God, who from my mother’s womb had set me apart and called me through his grace).

But Jeremiah tries complaining anyway: “Ah, Lord God!” I said, “I know not how to speak; I am too young.”

But God’s not having any of that. And he tells Jeremiah that he’s making of him a fortified city, a pillar of iron, a wall of brass. Good, solid stuff.

And the psalm, from Psalm 71, ask the Lord: Be my rock and refuge, my secure stronghold; for you are my rock and fortress.

More solid stuff.

Even better, the psalm also says: On you I depend since birth; from my mother’s womb you are my strength.

Maybe there’s a connection, between the womb and the rock solid fortress? Or maybe I’m just thinking of this connection, because of the anniversary last week of Roe v. Wade, and the March for Life, which for yet another year I did not attend.

As always, I read more about Roe, this time William Saletan’s article (a review of Linda Greenhouse’s book on Justice Blackmun) in Legal Affairs from 2005. Interesting to note in these fractured times that whatever one thinks of Roe, it was decided by a seven to two majority. So different even twenty years later, where Casey squeaked by with a bare plurality of three. That makes all the five-to-fours that we’re so used to nowadays seem positively decisive.

The opening hymn today is Love Divine, All Loves Excelling, based on everybody’s favorite tune Hyfrydol. I’m saddened to learn that it’s apparently pronounced hu-vru-dul, according to Wikipedia. And all this time I’ve been saying hiff-ruh-doll. Yikes.

Either way, it’s Welsh for good cheer. Like a toast, I guess.

The recessional hymn, Christ’s Church Shall Glory in His Power, includes the line He is our rock, our mighty tow’r. The tune is Ein’ feste Burg, German for “a mighty fortress.”

Have a Adult Faith Formation Committee meeting at St. Matt’s. There’s a huge plate of cookies, and, as I haven’t had dinner, I’m sadly unable to resist eating like 47 of the damn things. I wish I had willpower to resist, but they’re just too good.

The tables in the conference room are set up in a big U shape, one table on each side and two tables at the bottom of the U. I sit on one of the sides, and I don’t know if it’s that the U is too big or that she speaks too softly or maybe it’s the HVAC blowing, but I have trouble hearing and understanding our chair Marinella. Plus she has an Italian accent. The guys closer to me I can understand, plus Maureen sitting right next to me. Marinella, not so much. I try to nod and smile a lot when she asks me something, trying to bid for time to figure out what she’s said. I hope I haven’t volunteered to bake cookies for the next meeting.

At the end of the meeting there’s still a lot of cookies left. You can’t really tell that we’ve made a dent in the giant pile. We still haven’t nailed down what the lecture series for the fall is going to be. Somebody suggests a series on the major documents of Vatican II: Gaudium et Spes, Lumen Gentium, Sacrosanctum Concilium, Dignitatis Humanae, and Dei Verbum.

An odd coincidence today. At my first wedding, in an Episcopal church, the wedding mass included three readings. One of them was a Shakespeare sonnet, number CXVI, of course. But the other two readings were from that there Bible, one Old Testament and one Gospel. And those two are two of the readings today.

Not terribly surprising, I suppose, since both readings are about or mention somehow weddings. Not too surprising to have them at a wedding, then. And then not too surprising to find them on the same day in the Lectionary. But still, kinda funny.

And, lucky for me today I think, the first reading is a bit longer than the one my sister read thirteen years ago. This time it begins:

For Zion’s sake I will not be silent,
for Jerusalem’s sake I will not be quiet,
until her vindication shines forth like the dawn

I naturally always like readings that mention Dawn.

But it’s the second reading today that really gets all the attention, mine as well as in the homily. It’s good old St. Paul, of course, writing to those Corinthians. (The first time.)

There are different kinds of spiritual gifts but the same Spirit;
there are different forms of service but the same Lord;
there are different workings but the same God
who produces all of them in everyone.
To each individual the manifestation of the Spirit
is given for some benefit.

I don’t want to step into too much here, getting in way way over my head, but I like to think that maybe we’re all of us not too far apart, Christian & Muslim & Jew. And Buddhist & Hindu. Again, not that I know this from any teaching of the Church. Heck, I may be committing grand heresy here. But I like to think of all of the world, and their beliefs, as being different kinds of spiritual gifts but the same spirit. As different workings but the same God.

Maybe it’s from thinking so specifically about Islam and Christianity last night. But then also I go do some quick Wikipedia searching, trying first ecumenicalism. It redirects to simply ecumenism, which it says is usually used in reference only to Christian denominations. So maybe not exactly the word I’m wanting.

But it’s funny, as it says that the word ecumenism derives from the Greek oikoumene, which means the inhabited world. But it looks like and makes me think of Khomeini, as in Grand Ayatollah Ruhollah Musavi Khomeini, that nemesis of the United States from not too many years ago. He was born plain old Ruhollah Musavi in the town of Khomein in Markazi Province in Iran. He was Khomeini because he was from Khomein.

Is there some connection? The Greek word coming from the name of this particular town?

Seems more likely that the name of the place maybe came from the Greek word. Wikipedia tells me that oikoumene is the present middle participle of the Greek verb meaning to inhabit. Oikoumene means I inhabit. Definitely sounds like a place could come to be named that. Kind of a tautology, maybe, or more just sorta Who’s on First-ish.

Q: Where do you live?
A: I live in the place I inhabit.

And but so anyway. Even this little detour makes me feel like it’s all tied together somehow.

We’re up early for the 8:30 Mass today. We’ve got a lot to do, and the Archbishop is celebrating some special Mass at 10:00 so we’d be missing the Latin anyway. We celebrated with him on Gaudete Sunday the fortieth anniversary of his ordination to the priesthood, so I can’t remember now what he’s celebrating today. I think maybe thirty years as a bishop. Or maybe 20.

There’s parking right out front when we arrive, since it’s so early and I guess people are also maybe going to the bigger shindig at ten. We pull up around the same time as Shannon in the choir. Dawn notes that she must be our cantor this morning, since there’s no choir at the 8:30 Mass.

We have Father Hurley and Deacon Work. Deacon Work reminds me of Jerry Falwell, except during Advent and Christmas when he grows his winter beard. Deacon Work’s winter beard, not Jerry Falwell’s. And he, Deacon Work, has this amazing booming baritone, a real radio announcer voice, which is exactly what he used to be. Apparently he was with ABC News in Korea, doing radio reporting during the Pueblo crisis.

Again with Joy to the World. Only this time the music leaflet directs us to sing verses three, four, and five. But then I’m totally confused when everybody starts singing the first verse, and only after that then launching into the third verse. And so Father Hurley et. al. have all arrived at their stations by the end of the fourth verse, so then Paul Hardy the organist finishes so there’s no singing of the fifth verse anyway.

Apparently the readings are always the same on Epiphany, regardless of the year. So no St. Luke today, just good old St. Matthew.

But it’s more the first reading that strikes me this year, the one from Isaiah.

Rise up in splendor, Jerusalem!

Caravans of camels shall fill you,
dromedaries from Midian and Ephah;
all from Sheba shall come
bearing gold and frankincense,
and proclaiming the praises of the LORD.

I don’t know why, but I am in wonder of these exotic places, Midian and Ephah. I mean, I’ve at least heard of Sheba, or the Queen of Sheba anyway, whoever she was. But where are (or were) Midian and Ephah?

Research reveals that Midian and Ephah aren’t places at all, but rather peoples.

First let’s note that we learned something about Midian at the Christmas Midnight Mass, where Isaiah said:

For the yoke that burdened them,
the pole on their shoulder,
and the rod of their taskmaster
you have smashed, as on the day of Midian.

I thought it sounded familiar.

Wikipedia says that Midian is a son of Abraham and his concubine Keturah. All well and good, but then it goes on to say in a parenthetical that Keturah is Hagar according to the midrash. Oh, goodness, now I’m confused.

Okay, let’s take it slow here. Breathe.

Midrash evidently is any number of ways of interpreting the the Old Testament, either like official rabbinical midrash or just any old interpretation of same. So we’ll just conclude as to Wikipedia’s parenthetical that some say that Keturah is Hagar, but it ain’t necessarily so.

And Genesis 25 starts out

Abraham married another wife, whose name was Keturah.
She bore him Zimran, Jokshan, Medan, Midian, Ishbak, and Shuah.
Jokshan became the father of Sheba and Dedan. The descendants of Dedan were the Asshurim, the Letushim, and the Leummim.
The descendants of Midian were Ephah, Epher, Hanoch, Abida, and Eldaah. All of these were descendants of Keturah.
Abraham deeded everything that he owned to his son Isaac. 

And all this long after Genesis 21, where Sarah demands that Hagar and Ishmael be exiled. You know, roaming in the wilderness, lost and setting down waiting to die, water springing from the rock. 

But either way, Midian is brother to Ishmael, either half-brother if Hagar and Keturah are different women or full brother if they are the same. And apparently lots of these descendants of Abraham go on to the nation founding à la Ishmael, although the others not with the express help of God and the “for I will make of him a great nation” that Ishmael got. And note Sheba in there as well. Midian, Ephah, and Sheba are all three of them peoples, not places. And all different from the Twelve Tribes of Israel, those specifically being descended from Jacob, son of Isaac and grandson of Abraham.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

I have to admit, to my great shame, that we do not go to Mass today. Although generally a holy day of obligation, because today’s feast is on a Monday this year, the Archdiocese of Washington suspends the obligation. Same as if it were on a Friday.

The choir is way more sparse than it’s been all season, with only eight members. The entrance hymn is Joy to the World, what hymn we left singing last time we were here. Kind of a nice bookend to the week.

And always a good time, Colossians 3:18, Wives, be subordinate to your husbands, as is proper in the Lord. Sadly, though, it’s balanced by 3:19, Husbands, love your wives, and avoid any bitterness toward them.

In his homily, Father Caulfield tells us what we can learn from each member of the Holy Family: humility from the Lord, generosity from the Blessed Virgin, and trust from St. Joseph. And all of these should add up to love.

The music leaflet is totally wrong in telling us that the Kyrie and Eucharistic Acclamations will be from the Missa cum Jubilo. They turn out to be from plain old Missa pro Defunctis (XVIII). And the readings jump totally around from the regular ones listed and the optional ones. We’re all mixed up today.

The Gospel reading is from St. Luke, when Jesus is twelve and gets lost in Jerusalem. Okay, well, not really lost. But his parents journey in the caravan for a day before they realize that they’ve left him behind. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed especially before the parallels between this episode and the Passion, the Lord being in Jerusalem for Passover and then being kinda missing for three days and then turning up.

And there’s another instance of the special relationship of St. Luke: [A]nd his mother kept all these things in her heart.

We kinda sorta cheat, going to the morning Mass for the fourth Sunday of Advent, then returning for the five-thirty Mass for Christmas. We’re not sure if we’re allowed to take Communion twice on one day. We ask Deacon Merella, and he assures us that we’re okay. Then we run into Monsignor, and so we get a second opinion from him, thankfully agreeing with the first.

We had trouble finding seating last year, so we arrive a full hour early this year. Or, since there’s the contemporary choir singing a chorale prelude starting at five, I guess it’s more like half an hour early. But anyway, we’re packed in by showtime, our pew built for four having five of us smooshed into it. We have a scare when the elderly genltleman at the end to our right swaps out with a younger man holding a small child. Ack! But luckily this arrangement is temporary, as the squirmy noisy urchin is taken away, and the old guy returns.

Note here that the contemporary choir is a separate entity from the schola cantorum whom we heard just this morning, or, rather, the former is a subset of the latter. Jennifer Goltz, who’s normally a member of the schola as well as usually our cantor, is director of the contemporary choir. There’s a wonderful small moment between songs where she’s quietly blowing into the pitch pipe, sort of huddled with Ellen and Heidi, who then express some sort of confusion as to why Jennifer is giving them the pitch. Jennifer realizes that the upcoming part is hers alone, rather than sung by the three of them. So she laughs and then directly launches into the song.

The entrance hymn is O Come, All Ye Faithful. Lovely, except that I never noticed how strange is the line He abhors not the Virgin’s womb. The older woman next to me to my right has a high strained and cracked voice, weirdly charming and soothing.

It’s the five-thirty Vigil Mass, and so we’re surprised when we get the readings from the Midnight Mass. How grand, getting so much of the beauty from the Midnight Mass without having to actually stay awake that late. Which we could never manage anyway. First reading is goold old Isaiah, with that old chestnut, another favorite part of Handel’s Messiah, For unto us a child is born. Or, as the NAB has it, For a child is born to us. Close enough. But it’s verses three and four from the passage that really jump out at me.

For the yoke that burdened them,
the pole on their shoulder,
and the rod of their taskmaster
you have smashed, as on the day of Midian.
For every boot that tramped in battle,
every cloak rolled in blood,
will be burned as fuel for flames.

Oh, isn’t that the best day, though? When every boot that tramped in battle will be burned!

Next is from St. Paul’s letter to Titus, where pretty much the life of the Christian is summarized quite neatly.

[T]o reject godless ways and worldly desires
and to live temperately, justly, and devoutly in this age,
as we await the blessed hope,
the appearance of the glory of our great God
and savior Jesus Christ,

A neat summation, surely, but actually living it, actually doing it, is so very hard.

And the Gospel, this year according to St. Luke. Some of you Peanuts fans may recognize it from A Charlie Brown Christmas, where the pedantic Linus explains the true meaning of Christmas. Some of those same fans may notice the differences between Linus’s King James and our NAB, although Linus makes one small mistake in his recitation.

For today in the city of David
a savior has been born for you who is Christ and Lord.
And this will be a sign for you:
you will find an infant wrapped in swaddling clothes
and lying in a manger.”
And suddenly there was a multitude of the heavenly host with the angel,
praising God and saying:
“Glory to God in the highest
and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.”

Generally, during the Credo, or Profession of Faith, we bow during et incarnátus est de Spíritu Sancto ex María Vírgine et homo factus est, or by the power of the Holy Spirit, he was born of the Virgin Mary and became man. Today’s a special day, as we’re supposed to kneel during it. Monsignor reminds us before we begin the Profession of Faith. But the booklet that we’re using says that we’re to kneel “for a brief moment of prayer.” So when the time comes, all of use, the whole congregation, haul ourselves down. But then suddenly everyone’s getting up again right away. I’m confused; I thought we’d be down longer. And I stopped reciting as I was getting the kneeler out and down and getting myself down onto it. So now I feel like I’m behind, with everybody charging ahead with the He was crucified under Pontius Pilate.

And then we sing O Little Town of Bethlehem during the preparation of the altar and gifts. And it’s the same a few minutes later when we sing Silent Night during communion. Both carols are lovely, in and of themselves, but I have trouble singing the higher notes while at the same time being as pianissimo as we’re supposed to be.

The usher directs us to go through the pews to our left, more towards the middle, to take communion. We have trouble getting back to our seats then, as we can’t go through the choir to the other side of our pew. We have to go back in the same way we came out. So Dawn and I have to step aside to let the people to our right go in first, and they mix up their order doing so, so I have somebody else sitting next to me now.

And communion itself takes quite a while, as there’s so many of us packed into the Cathedral. After Silent Night we have time to sing It Came Upon the Midnight Clear, even time to sing the first verse again at the end.

And finally the recessional hymn is Joy to the World, which I can usually belt out pretty well. But we’ve been singing quite a bit tonight, and I’m a little worn out. But I give it my best. And afterwards I chat with Jennifer Goltz for a minute, getting her to explain to me how she’s related to the two others named Goltz in the choir. Husband and brother-in-law, turns out. And if Heidi Scanio in the choir is related to the Heather Scanio and Alan Scanio listed as authors or arrangers in the choral prelude song listing. Same person and husband. And if the Ellen Roche in the choir is related to the Terri Roche in the song listing. No relation, as Terri Roche (actually it’s Terre Roche) is in the singing group the Roches, whom I saw at Wolf Trap once, opening for Richard Thompson.

We’ve almost made it. It’s so close now. He’s so close, almost here. The first reading is from Michah.

Thus says the Lord:
You, Bethlehem-Ephrathah
too small to be among the clans of Judah,
from you shall come forth for me
one who is to be ruler in Israel;

And today’s Gospel reading, from St. Luke, has more of the Hail Mary.

Elizabeth, filled with the Holy Spirit,
cried out in a loud voice and said,
“Blessed are you among women,
and blessed is the fruit of your womb.”

Father Caulfield reminds us how he had told us those three short weeks ago, when Advent began, that it would fly by so quickly. He sure is right, I agree. Time has flown.

He admits that it has for him as well.

And I wonder if we can ever truly prepare as much as we should. I always think of Emily’s line in Our Town, from the third act: Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it? -— every, every minute?

So very similar to the previous Tuesday’s Zechariah, and either Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion or Sing and rejoice, O daughter Zion, today’s first reading is from Zephaniah and begins Shout for joy, O daughter Zion!

The Gospel reading though is the one that’s a real true treat for me, one that I know from way way back. The full reading is from St. Luke, from chapter 3, verses ten through eighteen. But, as it happens, on my old Datsun 510 station wagon years and years ago, my license plate was LUK-313. First time I saw it I figured it meant Luke 3:13. So of course I looked it up immediately.

I must have looked it up in a King James Version, because I remember it as “Exact no more than that which you are appointed.” Oh, but of course I remember it wrong. The quote from the King James is actually “Exact no more than that which is appointed you.” Either way, though, someone is not supposed to exact more than some specified amount. Or, as I’ve always translated it, “Take no more than what you’re supposed to take,” or, more generally, “Take no more than you need.”

And I remembered it as being St. John the Baptish preaching to the tax collectors of Lebanon. Now though I’m not so sure as to why I thought that they had to be especiallly from Lebanon. He’s baptizing in the Jordan River, which is mighty mighty long, running from the Sea of Galilee to the Dead Sea, in or between Israel, Jordan, and Palestine. Kinda south of Lebanon. Although I guess I’m looking at present day boundries, not like whatever the Romans said was what, back when they were in charge, two-thousand years ago.

But anyway, looking at the passage now, years later, (when my license plate is CB-0083,) I’m struck more by what surrounds the passage. The NAB that we use in the Catholic Church translates it itself as “Stop collecting more than what is prescribed.” But what I like is that it isn’t just St. John the Baptish spouting off on his own, although I like it when he does that too. No, here, the tax collectors ask for advice. So do the soldiers, and the regular folk too.

The crowds asked John the Baptist,
“What should we do?”
He said to them in reply,
“Whoever has two cloaks
should share with the person who has none.
And whoever has food should do likewise.”
Even tax collectors came to be baptized and they said to him,

“Teacher, what should we do?”
He answered them,
“Stop collecting more than what is prescribed.”
Soldiers also asked him,
“And what is it that we should do?”
He told them,
“Do not practice extortion,
do not falsely accuse anyone,
and be satisfied with your wages.”

And that’s stuff I’ve been thinking about forever, and thinking about lately. Like, why do I believe what I believe? Or, more generally, just what am I doing here, on Earth or even today in this church? And then, more specifically, what should I do? What should I be doing?

And it’s comforting to remember that these are not new questions. Clearly people have been asking these questions for thousands of years.

And it’s some good answers that St. John the Baptist gives as well. Sure, it’s real simple, common-sense advice, but it’s still good advice. You maybe can’t solve all the problems, but at least don’t be the cause of some of those problems. And also: share.

Lovely music today, too, as Ellen Kliman takes a little solo part during the Kyrie that just knocks your socks off. And then she solos wonderfully during communion on the Handel, But who may abide. We go up to her like groupies after Mass and tell her how wonderful she is. Dawn mentions that she’s great on the St. Matthew’s Choir Christmas CD that we bought as well.

Today is the feast day of the patron saint of Mexico, among other places. I’ve been living with her all year in the form of the calendar that adorns the wall right behind me, right between the two windows of my office.

I’m not sure where or why or how I came to possess this calendar. I think maybe I bought it on sale at Borders, after Christmas, after New Year’s Day. Dawn likes whimsical cat or folk art calendars, whereas I’m more generally a fan of religious ones. And a calendar where each month is a different depiction of the same icon, well, that’s right up my alley.

The first reading from the Lectionary for today is from Zechariah. It’s similar to, so very similar to, but in fact just ever so slightly different from, the great soprano piece from Handel’s Messiah, Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion. That’s actually from Zechariah 9, whilst today’s reading is Sing and rejoice, O daughter Zion and is from Zechariah 2.

(And as it turns out, we hear this very Handel piece this coming weekend at the 10:00 a.m. Mass.)

And the Gospel is the from St. Luke, just slightly before the Magnificat. Hey, it’s the Hail Mary!

The angel Gabriel was sent from God
to a town of Galilee called Nazareth,
to a virgin betrothed to a man named Joseph,
of the house of David,
and the virgin’s name was Mary.
And coming to her, he said,
“Hail, full of grace! The Lord is with you.”

When I was first in inquiry at St. Matt’s, Will Young pointed out how great the next line was: But she was greatly troubled at what was said and pondered what sort of greeting this might be. Will said that this showed what a special relationship the Blessed Virgin had with St. Luke, because the only way that he would know that she was troubled, or what she pondered in her heart, is because she told him so.

Oh, but I didn’t mention the music we’ve been having! Even starting two weeks ago, the week before Advent began, November 26, the Solemnity of Our Lord Jesus Christ the King, we get someone from the Schola Cantorum doing a solo from Handel’s Messiah. On Christ the King it was Worthy is the Lamb. Last week it was Thus saith the Lord and But who may abide.

And this week it’s O thou that tellest good tidings to Zion. I don’t know the names of the singers in the choir, so this woman who sings it I always just call Kate. She vaguely reminds me of Kate Winslet. After Mass she’s out in the nave greeting what appear to be her grandparents, so I stop by and introduce myself and Dawn and tell her how good she was. And she introduces herself as Heather. Ah, not Kate. Heather.

And continuing the theme of waiting and anticipating, today’s Gospel reading, from St. Luke of course, gives us good old St. John the Baptist, preaching from Isaiah. And it’s those lines that Handel uses right at the beginning of Messiah.

A voice of one crying out in the desert:
“Prepare the way of the Lord,
make straight his paths.
Every valley shall be filled
and every mountain and hill shall be made low.
The winding roads shall be made straight,
and the rough ways made smooth,
and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.”

So I’m totally expecting that as the Handel solo during Communion, Every valley shall be exalted, but, as I said, we get O thou that tellest instead. Or we could totally expect this part of Isaiah to be the first reading, right? Wrong again! We get Baruch instead. But, still, it turns out to be interesting in its own way. Check this out:

For God has commanded
that every lofty mountain be made low,
and that the age-old depths and gorges
be filled to level ground,
that Israel may advance secure in the glory of God.

It’s the same thing! Cool and fun. Our man Baruch tying into Isaiah, or channelling Isaiah. Or maybe the other way around? Wonder which was written first? I’m guessing Isaiah, since he’s like such a rockstar prophet, while poor Baruch is deuterocanonical. (Or apocryphal, depending on your particular persuasion, right?) Some quick Wikipedia research puts Isaiah around 740 BC and Baruch around 580 BC.

I have to admit, though, that I’m a bigger fan of Handel’s old King James, with its rough places being made plain, rather than the NAB’s smooth.

And I especially like the beginning of the Gospel reading, setting the scene, placing it in historical context:

In the fifteenth year of the reign of Tiberius Caesar,
when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea,
and Herod was tetrarch of Galilee,
and his brother Philip tetrarch of the region
of Ituraea and Trachonitis,
and Lysanias was tetrarch of Abilene,
during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas …

The way I understand it, there’s no contemporary record of Jesus, the Gospels all being written some forty to seventy years after the Resurrection. So I like this tie to events and people where there maybe are extant records. I don’t know if St. Luke’s account matches up exactly, like if Lysanias and Herod were in fact contemporaries, but it sounds good to me.

Happy New Year!

It’s now Year C, according to the Lectionary readings schedule. Readings from St. Mark? That’s so last year. It’s St. Luke this year.

The readings today, as they would be in Advent, are all about anticipation. Something’s a-comin’. First, from Jeremiah:

The days are coming, says the LORD,
when I will fulfill the promise
I made to the house of Israel and Judah.
In those days, in that time,
I will raise up for David a just shoot;

I like the botanical imagery, describing a shoot. Oh, and not just any shoot, but a just shoot. Why such a phrase, a just shoot? Well, I guess I understand the just part of it, as the Messiah will be the king, who limns between right and wrong. And maybe the shoot, the plant image somehow makes it all the more natural, more organic. That it’ll just grow and happen. Somehow that makes it more likely?

And what should we do while we’re waiting? St. Paul says to “conduct yourselves to please God.” And in the Gospel, Jesus warns that there will be signs, scary signs, that people will die of fright, even. Be vigilant at all times, he says. Pray that you have the strength to escape the tribulations.

Oh, yes. Something’s a-comin’.

In his homily, Father Caulfield, dressed in festive purple vestments, explains that it isn’t quite Christmas yet. Soon. But for now, we wait and anticipate.

A stunning first reading, so clearly pre-figuring the Passion.

For if the just one be the son of God, God will defend him
and deliver him from the hand of his foes.
With revilement and torture let us put the just one to the test
that we may have proof of his gentleness
and try his patience.
Let us condemn him to a shameful death;
for according to his own words, God will take care of him.

I love Old Testament readings that do this.

The Gospel reading is from St. Mark, where the disciples are arguing, arguing as to who among them is the best disciple. What are they, like junior high students or something? I’m the best, says one. No way, I’m so totally the best of the best, says another. I’m pleased at how utterly human they are, like we are as followers today, as much as I’m annoyed by them.

Some tough readings today, all about action. Can’t just talk the talk; rather, gotta walk the walk.

Isaiah tells of real hardship for following the Lord. I gave my back to those who beat me, my cheeks to those who plucked my beard; my face I did not shield from buffets and spitting. Really raw suffering, for his faith. And St. James asks us, What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if someone says he has faith but does not have works? He says that just wishing the poor and hungry a good day doesn’t do them any good. It’s feeding them and clothing them, not just sympathizing but comforting, actually providing, that counts. And Christ tells us:

Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself,
take up his cross, and follow me.
For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it,
but whoever loses his life for my sake
and that of the gospel will save it.

I think about these things and wonder: how much is enough? And I know that however much I think is enough, it’s not enough.

And but then I think of poor Martin Luther and justification by faith alone.

So, as I see it, you gotta walk the walk. It doesn’t count. But you gotta walk it anyway.

His Holiness Pope Benedict XVI gave the speech on Tuesday, days ago now, but it’s all just now starting to get into the news. Certainly I first year about it today. I of course do the right thing and go find a copy & read it. Hard to know what to think about reactions to what the Holy Father said without actually knowing what he said, huh?

So I read it and am not especially outraged. He quotes a fourteenth century Byzantine emperor, quoting a rather charged statement actually, but qualifying the quotation by noting that it’s a rather charged statement. And apparently I read an early translation of the orginal German into English, which translation misses even more qualifiers.

But, okay, I’m not a follower of Islam, so I won’t pretend that I can adequately judge their sensitivies to bias and insult. I myself am fairly sensitive to anti-Catholic sentiment, heck, was so when I didn’t particularly believe in God. So let’s just stipulate that what the Holy Father said is in fact offensive to Islam.

Does that justify fire-bombing churches? (Although neither of the two churches bombed in Nablus were actually Catholic churches. One was Anglican and the other Greek Orthodox.) And shooting and killing a Catholic nun in Mogadishu? That’s just fucking crazy.

We’re back to the ten a.m. Latin Mass, and today we’ve got special guests Papa Joe and Mother Dillon. Sarah always likes to come to the Latin Mass with us, but this is a first for us with Joe. Last time he came he flew out too early to go with us.

The choir is back. Hooray! You know what that means? That’s right. Palestrina!

From the always useful Wikipedia:

Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina (c 1525–2 February 1594) was an Italian composer of Renaissance music. He was the most famous sixteenth-century representative of the Roman School of musical composition. Palestrina had a vast influence on the development of Roman Catholic church music, and his work can be seen as a summation of Renaissance polyphony.

The choir sings the Gloria from Palestrina’s Missa brevis, then later, during the Preparation, the sing Ad te levavi oculos (To thee have I lifted up my eyes) by Palestrina as well. During communion, one of the sopranos sings an absolutely lovely solo from Handel’s Messiah.

The first reading is from Isaiah, and it makes me think of 9/11:

Thus says the LORD:
Say to those whose hearts are frightened:
Be strong, fear not!
Here is your God,
he comes with vindication;
with divine recompense
he comes to save you.

Although I’ve generally been thinking a lot about 9/11, the anniversary of which is tomorrow. Not that I think that this particular passage implies at all that God is on our side, nothing like that. Rather, it’s to me more of just an encouragement, for us, and for me, one whose heart is so often frightened.

But it’s the Gospel reading that really knocks my socks off. It’s from our Year B main man, St. Mark, of course. In it, Jesus cures a deaf man.

[P]eople brought to him a deaf man who had a speech impediment
and begged him to lay his hand on him.
He took him off by himself away from the crowd.
He put his finger into the man’s ears
and, spitting, touched his tongue;
then he looked up to heaven and groaned, and said to him,
“Ephphatha!” -. that is, “Be opened!” —
And immediately the man’s ears were opened,
his speech impediment was removed,
and he spoke plainly.

What’s so great is that spitting, that so completely human, low-tech way of producing a medicinal salve. And then, and then, he groans. How utterly strange, groaning. Again a so very human method, this time of incantation. But, no, pre-human even, pre-verbal. Then that strange word, ephphatha. This is all so very cool, picturing Jesus being so completely caught up in what he’s doing, so dramatic, looking up to heaven and groaning. It’s like a purely cinematic moment. And never mind the miracle itself. We see that time and again in the Gospels. But never so dramatic as this.

The choir returns next week, so this is our last week coming to the 8:30 a.m. Mass.

Good German tunes for singing today. The processional hymn is The Master Came to Bring Good News, to the tune Ich Glaub an Gott, German for I believe in God. The recessional hymn is How Shall They Hear the Word of God, to the tune Auch Jetzt Macht Gott, German for Also now makes God or Still God Makes. Whatever that means.

The first reading is from Deuteronomy, Moses addressing the people, telling them to observe faithfully and exactly the laws he has given them. One line, [Y]ou shall not add to what I command you nor subtract from it, brings to mind the Gettysburg Address, where President Lincoln says that the brave men who fought there had consecrated the ground far above our poor powers to add or detract.

(The second reading from St. James has something of a similar notion as well, when he says about God, with whom there is no alteration or shadow caused by change.)

But it’s that admonition from Moses that to me colors, and in doing so confuses me about, the Gospel reading from St. Mark. The Pharisees ask Jesus why some of his disciples do not wash their hands before a meal. The narrative explains that this practice is something that all Jews do, as a way of keeping the traditions of the elders.

But it’s more than just a tradition, isn’t it? It’s a direct mitzvah from the Torah, and Moses specifically says that no one is to add or subtract from that. But then Jesus answers the Pharisees in such a way as to emphasize the spirit of the law rather than the letter.

Normally at the beach Dawn and I go to the nine a.m. Mass at Holy Redeemer by the Sea in Kitty Hawk. But we’re heading further south this morning to Manteo, so we hit the eight a.m. Mass at Holy Trinity by the Sea in Nags Head. And it turns out to be a lot more charming than Holy Redeemer, just a small building, more a chapel than the big ugly modern Holy Redeemer. And with attendance measured in dozens rather than hundreds, parking is a whole lot easier as well.

Music isn’t so great though. I’ve heard it said that Catholics can’t sing, and we sure do exemplify that today. But other than that it’s a great Mass. Leading us is Fr. Glenn Willis, an Oblate of St. Francis de Sales from Silver Spring and who tells us that this is his thirtieth year vacationing in the Outer Banks and helping out in this parish while he’s here. He explains to us that today’s readings are all about making choices.

The first reading is from Joshua, where Joshua gathers together all the tribes of Israel. It’s from the last chapter of the Book of Joshua. Seems like Joshua’s saying goodbye maybe. And Joshua tells them that they have to decide whom to serve, either the old gods or the new gods of the Amorites, or the Lord. Smart people, they decide on the Lord.The second reading is that rather famous exhortation from St. Paul, from Ephesians. Father Willis tells us to concentrate less on the that famous third line, “Wives should be subordinate to their husbands,” and more on the too-often-overlooked second line, where St. Paul tells us that we should all “be subordinate to one another.”

The Responsorial Psalm is yet again “Taste and see the goodness of the Lord,” from Psalm Thirty-Four. Third week in a row for this one. I’m starting to get the feeling that they think this one’s really important. And continuing as well is the Gospel from St. John. Remember last week we discussed how Jesus was being deliberately shocking. This week he goes so far as to ask, “Does this shock you?”

Well, yeah. Kinda. Now that you ask.

Some of the disciples say, “This is hard.” They ask, “[W]ho can accept it?” And in fact many of them don’t accept it. They up and leave and go back to their former ways of life. It’s all about choosing whether to listen and follow, and they choose a different way.

The Adult Formation Committee meets in the East Conference Room. Up now is also the new name of the conference room, the Msgr. John K. Cartwright Conference Room. Okay, gotta try and remember that. The Cartwright Conference Room.

I’m never going to be able to remember that.

We have an astonishing crowd for the meeting. Thirteen of us! Amazing.

Among other things we discuss, we want to try to find some way of organizing ourselves online. Carl is specifically tasked with checking out alternatives, but I end up searching as well.

I create a St. Matt’s AFC space in a Yahoo group and a MySpace group, as well as creating wikis at PBWiki, Jot, Central Desktop, and Wet Paint. And Carl creates a Blogger/BlogSpot blog as well. And after comparing all of them, seems to me that good old Yahoo is going to be the best bet. (The Jot wiki would totally be the way to go, but the free version is limited to five users and ten pages.)

Again with the early Mass, and again with a priest whose name I don’t catch. He’s a severe, jowly looking guy, and I fear him immediately. Then he lets us off the hook, skipping the Confiteor, going straight to the Kyrie. Whew. I’m liking him more and more already.

Then for his homily he’s really terrific and engaging, and so then he’s thoroughly won me over. Not scary at all, I decide.

The readings are pretty much a continuation of last week, with the Bread of Life motif going on. (The Gospel reading is a direct continuation, from last week’s verses forty-one through fifty-one and today’s fifty-one through fifty-eight.) (And the Responsorial Psalm is the very same exact on as last week, only minus verses eight and nine.)

 The reading from the Book of Wisdom anthropomorphizes wisdom as a woman, here setting a banquet for the simple:

To the one who lacks understanding, she says,
Come, eat of my food,
and drink of the wine I have mixed!
Forsake foolishness that you may live;
advance in the way of understanding.

Apparently, casting Wisdom as a woman is (or was) a common literary device. And in this instance it works really well, I think, with the Gospel reading from St. John, with wisdom, with words, becoming our nourishment, and St. John famously begins his Gospel with the logos, with the word, with “In the beginning was the Word … and the Word was God.”

The Father in his homily tells us that Jesus was being deliberately provocative in telling the elders that they would have to eat his flesh and drink his blood, purposefully invoking the taboo against cannibalism to drive home his point that this was a whole new completely changed world that he was causing to come to be.

The recessional hymn is God, Whose Giving Knows No Ending, another hymn sung to the tune of Rustington. We had God Has Spoken By His Prophets back on the Fourteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time. And apparently there’s another as well, See, the Conqueror mounts in triumph. Don’t know if that’s also in our Worship hymnal. Very quick research tells me that Rustington was written by Sir Charles Hubert Hastings Parry, who also wrote the music to the lovely Blake’s Jerusalem.

We leave a couple minutes early and stop at St. Joseph’s on Capitol Hill for the 8:00 a.m. Mass. I’ve seen Senator Rick Santorum heading into this Mass before, on other days, but no sign of him today. See, he goes on just any old day. Good for him. I’m here today actually only because we’re required to go somewhere today, it being a holy day of obligation, as we say.

Sadly, there’s no singing, except for the Alleluia. The start of the Mass is announced by bells ringing, something I’ve only otherwise seen & heard in Italy.

Crazy first reading from Revelations. I don’t even begin to know how to put together all the imagery, the woman wailing in pain as she gives birth to the child about to be devoured by the seven-headed dragon. Except that we’re all about the Blessed Virgin today, so maybe she’s supposed to be the woman. Except, check, right, this is Revelations, and it’s all just crazy.

The Gospel is the Magnificat. Of course!

My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord;
my spirit rejoices in God my savior.

The Assumption itself is a dogma, and it describes the conceit whereby the Mother of God did not die but rather was assumed into heaven. (Hmm. We were just talking on Sunday about Elijah and something similar.) Looking to the OED, assume comes from the Latin ad sumere, meaning to take to oneself, as in God taking her to himself. So that’s assume in that sense, rather than the we don’t know any better so we just assume it to be so sense, you jokesters.

I think it’s a lovely concept, probably somehow logically necessary even, in like divine argument or something. How could the mother of God die, I guess is the question, and that needs to be answered by, well, she didn’t. Like how could the mother of God be born with original sin? Again, she wasn’t. That’s the Immaculate Conception.

But it’s also something of an article of faith, more than merely a concept or a logical necessity. It’s a belief that to deny, according to His Holiness Pope Benedict XIV, would be impious and blasphemous. (That’s fourteenth, note. Not the current sixteenth.) And then it was formally constituted to be a dogma of the Church by His Holiness Pope Pius XII in 1950:

[W]e pronounce, declare, and define it to be a divinely revealed dogma: that the Immaculate Mother of God, the ever Virgin Mary, having completed the course of her earthly life, was assumed body and soul into heavenly glory.

Furthermore,

Hence if anyone, which God forbid, should dare willfully to deny or to call into doubt that which we have defined, let him know that he has fallen away completely from the divine and Catholic Faith.

Cool.

All about nourishment today. All about the Eucharist.

In the first reading, Elijah says enough is enough. He sits beneath a tree and prays for death. Then he lies down and sleeps. An angel awakens him and gives him food and drink and sends him on his way.

The response in the Responsorial Psalm is Taste and see the goodness of the Lord. More nourishment, although oddly, that line seems to come from the Lectionary, whereas the NAB has as Learn to savor how good the Lord is. (Just for completion’s sake, I’ll add here that the King James has it O taste and see that the LORD is good.)

The Gospel is from St. John. You can tell right away since it starts with a jarring The Jews murmured about Jesus … (St. John was writing for non-Jews, is why his Gospel is so un-PC, is my understanding.) But anyway, Christ tells us about spiritual nourishment:

I am the bread of life.
Your ancestors ate the manna in the desert, but they died;
this is the bread that comes down from heaven
so that one may eat it and not die.
I am the living bread that came down from heaven;
whoever eats this bread will live forever;
and the bread that I will give is my flesh for the life of the world.

Interestingly, Elijah in fact did not die. In 2 Kings he flies up to heaven in a whirlwind. Apparently some think he will return, and that’ll signal the end times. Yikes. But he’s an interesting one, that Elijah. I know mostly nothing about him. But remember last week when he appeared with Christ and Moses, and Peter thought each of them should get a tent. He’s evidently a big deal, this Elijah.

(More things I don’t know are broom trees and hearth cakes, Elijah falling asleep under a broom tree and the angel giving him a hearth cake to eat. I imagine a tree made up of old-fashioned brooms all sticking up where branches would be. The OED tells me that it’s the other way around, that brooms originally were made from twigs from the broom tree tied together, whence the broom gets its name. And a hearth cake isn’t a cake made out of a hearth; it’s a cake baked on a hearth. Duh, Ed.)

St. Paul has other things on his mind, and once again seems to speak to qualities that I’ve been unfortunately lacking lately. [B]e kind to one another, compassionate, forgiving one another, he tells us. All bitterness, fury, anger, shouting, and reviling
must be removed from you, along with all malice.

And here I’ve been so bitter and unforgiving so very recently.

Lord, help me to act according to your will, to leave my smallness and petty-mindedness behind.

The Transfiguration is something of a newer concept to me. It’s something of a newer addition to the Rosary as well, so I don’t feel so out of it, so all alone on this one. What happens basically is that Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up on the mountain. While there Jesus is transfigured, his face and clothes shine bright, and with him, also shining, are Moses and Elijah. God’s voice is heard, saying, “This is my beloved Son.” After everything calms down, Jesus tells the guys to keep quiet about it.

According to the notes on the passages themselves at the USCCB NAB, the incident does a couple of things. They say:

The account of the transfiguration confirms that Jesus is the Son of God and points to fulfillment of the prediction that he will come in his Father’s glory at the end of the age. It has been explained by some as a resurrection appearance retrojected into the time of Jesus’ ministry, but that is not probable since the account lacks many of the usual elements of the resurrection-appearance narratives. It draws upon motifs from the Old Testament and noncanonical Jewish apocalyptic literature that express the presence of the heavenly and the divine, e.g., brilliant light, white garments, and the overshadowing cloud.

On that note, those Old Testament motifs, our first reading is from Daniel.

As I watched:

Thrones were set up
and the Ancient One took his throne.
His clothing was bright as snow,
and the hair on his head as white as wool;
his throne was flames of fire,
with wheels of burning fire.
A surging stream of fire
flowed out from where he sat;

There’s them motifs. And then I especially like the repetition of fire, first the flames of fire, then the wheels of burning fire, then the surging stream of fire. And then sort of along those same lines, Psalm 97 for the Responsorial Psalm has the line, The mountains melt like wax before the Lord.

The Gospel is the description from St. Mark, about the same as in the other Synoptic Gospels. St. Mark however has God’s voice saying This is my beloved Son. Listen to him. same as St. Luke, whereas St. Matthew has it This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased; listen to him. I like the addition of the with whom I am well pleased, as that echoes the Baptism of the Lord, another Luminous Mystery.

We have a guest priest, whose name I don’t catch, who celebrates Mass and gives the homily. He points out how once again Peter screws up, this time deciding to build tents for Jesus and Moses and Elijah. As St. Mark puts it, He hardly knew what to say, they were so terrified. But, not to be so hard on St. Peter, I do like the second reading, the Epistle, from St. Peter himself today, rather than St. Paul. It’s his description, from 2 Peter 1:16-19, of these very events, where he tells us, We ourselves heard this voice come from heaven while we were with him on the holy mountain.

We get the miracle of the loaves & fishes today.

First up is a mighty interesting reading from Second Kings. A man brings to Elisha twenty barley loaves, and Elisha says to give it to the people to eat, despite the man’s protests that it’s not nearly enough for the hundred people. But Elisha insists that, and indeed there is, enough and then some. There’s some left over after they have eaten.

This of course prefigures pretty much the same scene in the Gospel. Or, actually, Gospels. We hear today from St. John, but it’s in all four Gospels, apparently the only miracle recounted in all four. (It also seems to be in St. Mark and St. Matthew twice each.) And even though it’s Year B, with lots of readings from St. Mark. And despite the fact that this miracle is in St. Mark. And despite the fact that we kinda left off last week, with Christ moved with pity by the crowd, a sheep without a shepherd, in St. Mark, and then this miracle is recounted immediately thereafter. But, still, we switch to St. John.

I’ve mentioned before what a big fan I am of the readings when they can tie Old Testament to New Testament. This is a classic example. Although St. Paul is really off message in his epistle. No loaves, no fishes. Although he specifically counsels humility, patience, and gentleness, traits I’ve been sorely lacking recently. Paul wags his finger a lot, but oh sometimes I sure do need it.

Deacon Rice reads the Gospel from the high pulpit, so we know that he’s going to give the homily as well. And it’s a satisfying sort of one for me, with the idea that we produce quite enough food in this world to feed everyone, (thirty-five hundred calories a day for everyone, says he). Problem of course is distribution, with getting it to those who are in need. It’s not the fault of this beautiful bounty that the Lord provides for us, it’s our system, or systems, that are at fault. It’s us.

And this of course makes me think of the collapse of the Doha round this week. All due to the agricultural subsidies. And the US blames the EU and the EU blames the US. And in the meantime people in the developing world are starving, subsistence farmers can’t even subsist. Although some quarters are cheering the collapse, thinking that the rich countries will game the system no matter what, that despite the stated purpose of making things fairer for developing countries, things would just get worse under Doha. I plead ignorance as usual as to the subtleties of trade policy, but note that it’s of course a truism that the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. The rich will always win, will always run the table, and maybe even steal your wallet while you’re not looking.

What with the choir being gone, and so much to do around the house, we go again to 8:30 a.m. Mass. Leading us is Father Caulfield, with Deacon Work assisting him. I see Heather in the procession as one of the eucharistic ministers.

The readings are all shepherds, all the time, scattering and reassembling the flock. First is from Jeremiah. “Woe to the shepherds who mislead and scatter the flock of my pasture, says the Lord … I myself will gather the remnant of my flock from all the lands to which I have driven them and bring them back to their meadow.” St. Paul tells us, “In Christ Jesus you who once were far off have become near by the blood of Christ.” And especially Christ the Good Shepherd, from the Gospel reading:

When he disembarked and saw the vast crowd,
his heart was moved with pity for them,
for they were like sheep without a shepherd;
and he began to teach them many things.

Now, oddly enough, all this makes me think of President Bush, who famously declared to be “a uniter, not a divider.” And I had never ever noticed the evangelical overtones to that statement before, but there it is. Here it is.

It makes me think of another semi-famous instance in 2000 where then-candidate Governor Bush in his stump speech would say, “Don’t be taking a speck out of your neighbor’s eye when you got a log in your own.” Then Washington reporter (and now food critic) for the New York Times, Frank Bruni, reported that Bush seemed to have invented a new twist on the old adage about the pot calling the kettle black. Governor Bush of course was loosely quoting Jesus, from the Gospel of St. Matthew.

I don’t know if President Bush actually believed it at the time, about being a uniter, not a divider. More lately he has declared that he is the decider. But whatever, he has rather become a most polarizing figure. But the message that he presented way back when, was both politically soothing, as well as a Biblical reference, that some people got I suppose, but I didn’t.

Or, as better put elsewhere, here’s how a profile of Mike Gerson in the New Yorker explains it.

Gerson says that he is flummoxed by the debate over religiosity in the White House. “There’s an idea that we are constantly trying to sneak into the President’s speeches religious language, code words, that only our supporters understand,” he said. “But they are code words only if you don’t know them, and most people know them.”

Gerson then goes on to cite the Frank Bruni example, saying with obvious relish, “No one at the Times seemed to know that these were the words of the Sermon on the Mount.”

(And I have to admit that I know the reference from first reading it in Stephen King, in The Stand, where Frannie for some reason ponders the line from St. Matthew, wondering about motes and beams, as they’re called in the King James. She free associates, coming up with Abe Beame, once the mayor of New York. Hearing it in church ever nowadays, or reading it in St. Matthew, or hearing Mike Gerson talk about it, I still instantly think about Frannie and Abe Beame.)

With all the shepherds, the Responsorial Psalm is, of course, from the Twenty-Third.

The processional hymn is There’s a Wideness in God’s Mercy. The first time I glance at the title on the music leaflet, I think it’s “There’s a Wildness in God’s Mercy.” Whatever could that mean? Or, it’s better than “There’s a Weirdness in God’s Mercy,” I suppose.

Then, later, I can’t for the life of me get out a line, without screwing up, of the recessional hymn, Praise to the Lord, the Almighty. It’s in 3/4 time (or maybe 6/8, with snatches of 3/8?) with syllable count of 14 14 478. Crazy. Dawn has no trouble with it, though.

Last week remember was the concept of a prophet at home and abroad. Today’s first reading is from Amos, where Amos is away from his home of Tekoa in Judah, prophesying in faraway Bethel in Israel. Ah, but no honor for him there, alas. The priest of Bethel kicks him out, sending him back to Judah, ordering him “never again prophesy in Bethel.” Amos replies that he was just minding his own business, not a prophet, when the Lord told him to go prophesy to the people of Israel. Amos is apparently the Rodney Dangerfield of prophets, getting no respect anywhere.

Amos says that he was a shepherd (minding his own business by minding his own sheep, you might say) and, more interesting, a dresser of sycamores. Whatever can that mean? He dresses up trees? Dresses them in like fancy costumes? Disguises them maybe?

A little research reveals a rather more mundane answer. The King James translates it as “a gatherer of sycamore fruit.”

The Gospel from St. Mark is the Lord sending the twelve out two by two and giving them authority over unclean spirits. Remember again, this time the concept of apostolic succession. Here’s where that all begins.

Again something jumps out at me, like maybe a tautology, where Jesus, when telling them to travel from town to town, says, “Wherever you enter a house, stay there until you leave.” It sounds funny at first. I mean, no matter what, if you stay someplace, you stay there until you leave. You can’t not stay somewhere until you leave.

But I guess it’s all part of travelling light, as the Lord tells them to do. He tells them that they can take a walking stick, but not food or money. Sandals are okay, but not a second tunic. I guess he means that if they find a place to stay, they are to stay there and preach locally. When they’ve worn out their welcome, when it’s time to go, don’t just find another house down the block. Leave the town and go to the next. As in, “Wherever [the city or town or village happens to be when] you enter a house, stay there [in that house] until you leave [that city or town or village].”

We have a guest homilist, a priest whose name I don’t understand. In fact, he’s French, but he grew up in South America, and now is a missionary in Hong Kong, so I don’t especially understand anything he says, between his accent(s) and the sound system. Certainly not his name. And I don’t understand it when Father Hurley says it either.

Good contrast between the reading from Ezekiel and the Gospel from St. Mark. In the first reading, the Lord commands Ezekiel to go to the Israelites and to tell ’em to shape up, noting however that they may or may not do so. But either way “they shall know that a prophet has been among them.” In the Gospel reading, Jesus goes back home to his native place, to his synagogue, and preaches there, to much grumbling. They know him there, but they know him too well, so they don’t know that there’s a prophet among them. He’s just one of them, they say, he’s no prophet.

“A prophet is not without honor except in his native place and among his own kin and in his own house,” Jesus says. Kind of a double negative, but what he’s saying is that a prophet does have honor, has honor everywhere, except for the one place, the place where they know him. He’s preaching to guys he went to school with, who learned the same things from the same rabbis. Who is he, they ask, to preach to them now?

Interesting also is what folks say when they’re identifying Jesus among themselves. “Is he not the carpenter, the son of Mary, and the brother of James and Joses and Judas and Simon? And are not his sisters here with us?” We Catholics believe in the perpetual virginity of the Blessed Virgin, so therefore she didn’t (couldn’t) have any other children, ergo then that Jesus didn’t have any siblings. What do we make of this then?

I suppose then we would explain this passage by going back to the original Greek, noting that whatever words we now translate as brothers and sisters are or were then also synonymous with cousins. Or something like that. I go to the online NAB at the US Conference of Catholic Bishops and that is indeed what they say: “[I]n Semitic usage, the terms “brother,” “sister” are applied not only to children of the same parents, but to nephews, nieces, cousins, half-brothers, and half-sisters.”

There’s also, according to the Catholic Encyclopedia, apocryphal writings that have influenced Catholic tradition saying that Jospeph was a widower, with children, at the time of his betrothment to Mary. Those could be the kids referenced here. (That Joseph was an older guy, and maybe had by then passed on, also can help explain why Christ’s mother is around later in the Gospels, but his (earthly) father isn’t.)

Whatever. I’m not so hung up about all of this. And, lucky for me, we Catholics don’t especially have to be. The non-scriptural thing that’s like heavy duty required for us is the Assumption, that Mary the Mother of God didn’t just die and that was that, but she was corporeally assumed into heaven. But that’s just way cool on its own. Who wouldn’t want to believe that?

Something else interesting that the USCCB annotations point out about today’s Gospel passage is that this is the only Gospel reference to Jesus being a carpenter. This same moment as recounted in St. Matthew reads not “carpenter” but “carpenter’s son.”

The processional hymn is God Has Spoken By His Prophets, the tune of which, something called Rustington, is fairly in my register. I can sing it. And I love the beginning of the second half of each verse, the F-sharp as the second note. I don’t know. It just sounds so serious, so dramatic. The recessional hymn is God, We Praise You, tune of Nettleton, with a daunting key signature of sharps at C and E. But I like the tune a lot and I do surprisingly okay, but Dawn doesn’t like it.

We go to eight-thirty Mass, trying to get a jump on the day’s work. We spot Monsignor on the steps on the way in, and Dawn says that she thought he was already on vacation. Not yet, apparently. We’ve arrived early, too, since Monsignor ends up leading the Mass. No choir, though; they must be gone for the summer. But Jennifer Goltz, the Director of Music, is still our cantor.

There’s an interesting connection to me between the first reading and the Gospel. The first reading is from Wisdom, where it says “the creatures of the world are wholesome, and there is not a destructive drug among them.” And in the Gospel, from St. Mark, the woman afflicted with hemorrhages has “suffered greatly at the hands of many doctors.” Odd to me that both mention medicine in some capacity, In the Old Testament it’s about medicine as medication, derived from nature, whereas in the New Testament it’s about medicine as a practice, as derived from and practiced by men, by doctors. (And doctors who actually don’t do any good anyway.)

Also interesting is that in the Gospel, the two stories of healing are intertwined. These same stories are recounted, again intertwined, in both St. Matthew and St. Luke’s Gospels as well. And in both cases, the afflicted woman and the dead girl, the number of twelve years comes up, as in the number of years the woman has been afflicted as well as the age of the little girl. There’s no mention, and indeed no likely reason, why these years are equal, but they are.

Monsignor in his homily goes a little further when he says that the hemorrhaging makes the woman unclean, which to me sounds like it’s some sort of menstrual bleeding. Looking at Leviticus, in Chapter 15, it’s quite explicit: when a woman has her menstrual flow, she is considered unclean for seven days, and if her flow continues outside of her normal period, she is likewise considered unclean. So that too should be taken in the context, as Jesus the observant Jew in this case isn’t observant, or, rather, like in so many other cases, ministers to someone in need rather than blindly observe the Mosaic Law.

Also fascinating is the moment when the woman touches Jesus’ cloak and is cured, and Jesus feels … something. As the Gospel describes it, he is “aware at once that power had gone out from him.” It’s an interesting thing, in that Jesus is generally God and man, both human and divine. But at this moment he is more man than God, knowing that something has happened, but not quite sure what that something is. He has to stop and ask.

Today we welcome the new Archbishop.

I thought it would be more crowded than it turns out to be. Looks more like a regular Sunday crowd, maybe a few hundred people. It’s really pouring out there though. Real cats & dogs. Has to have kept a lot of people away.

One thing I notice is that we’ve got something of a band today, along with the choir. Three trumpets and/or cornets, I’m not nearly savvy enough to tell the difference. A trombone and a tuba and a kettle drum. They make a huge, joyful noise. Good for welcoming.

We welcome His Excellency Donald William Wuerl first thing, with singing and music and a grand procession, through the big main doors that are hardly ever opened. Joining us today with Archbishop Wuerl are two of our former archbishops, His Eminence William Cardinal Baum and His Eminence Theodore Cardinal McCarrick. Trumpets blare and the drums boom and we & the choir all sing, again with the Hyfrydol and Alleluia! Sing to Jesus. Seems like we’ve been singing that every week. And normally I think the choir would be gone by now for the summer, but I guess they’ve been held over this one last week.

The first reading is from Job.

The Lord addressed Job out of the storm and said:
Who shut within doors the sea,
when it burst forth from the womb;
when I made the clouds its garment
and thick darkness its swaddling bands?
When I set limits for it
and fastened the bar of its door,
and said: Thus far shall you come but no farther,
and here shall your proud waves be stilled!

It makes me think first of the great doors of the Cathedral that we’ve seen opened today, the part about the sea being shut within doors. But today we’ve seen the doors opened, of course, not shut them. Although with the rain outside today, sounds like the sea could come bursting through any second. But Cardinal McCarrick tells us that rain is of course a blessing and that it’s a special blessing today for our new archbishop. Then the making of garments from clouds is lovely imagery. Today we have so many garments, with so many different clergy here today, Cardinals and Archbishop and a number of priests. There are three priests acting as masters of ceremony, Father Caulfield among them; they’re in the old-fashioned black and white choir dress.

The second reading is from Second Corinthians, St. Paul telling us that Christ has died for us, therefore we should live not for ourselves but for him. What’s especially nice for today is the end of the reading, “[T]he old things have passed away; behold, new things have come.” Indeed.

The Gospel is from St. Mark (as it is during Lectionary Year B, of course). What’s also cool is that both the Gospel Reading and the Responsorial Psalm speak of storms at sea, and of the Lord calming them. And again with the storm motif, today with the great storm outside.

His Excellency gives his homily from the way high up pulpit. He tells of receiving a letter from a young man named Dominic, in which letter he, Dominic, expresses amazement that (then) Bishop Wuerl knows a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy who knew Jesus. I have to agree with Dominic here, and I too really like the idea of apostolic succession. That when I was confirmed, it was by the bishop Cardinal McCarrick who himself had been consecrated by a bishop who had himself been … by a guy … who himself … this other guy … goes way back … consecrated by … consecrated by …. who had been consecrated by St. Peter who had been consecrated by Christ. How amazing is that?

Like Cardinal McCarrick used to do, Archbishop Wuerl refers to himself as “your unworthy servant” during the anamnesis and intercessions of the Eucharistic Prayer. On our way out after Mass the ushers hand us prayer cards with Archbishop Wuerl on the front and his dates of birth & ordination & installation on the back.

(The next day the Washington Times carries a story saying that parishioners “were given pocket-sized, colored photographs of Archbishop Wuerl.” Heh.)