Saturday, October 09, 2004
A Good Night All Around
The Red Sox completed a 3-game sweep of the Angels to face (most likely) the Yankees in the next round of the playoffs. It was rather a dramatic game. In the 7th the Sox were coasting with a 6-1 lead. Suddenly, the game was tied. They only won it on a David Ortiz home run in the 10th.
And on the political front, the President did much better in the second debate, following a very good clock-cleaning performance by the Vice President the other day. Let us hope this stops Kerry's momentum, and reverses the cataclysmic poll results of the last 10 days. Ominously, Iowa, Pennsylvania, Minnesota, and Ohio, all vital, and states in which the President was either tied or had a small lead, drifted back to Kerry.
Hard work and hard thumping will be needed right through until November 2nd. No more dreams of an Electoral College landslide. Some good news on the war front, some capture, some thwarting of a serious terrorist plot, would be a big help. And don't forget, al Qaeda will try to cast its vote for the buttery-soft Democrats through a terrorist attack between now and the election as well. If they succeed, don't react like the Spanish. Be menschen. Resolve to giv ethe President and the GOP even bigger results.
And on the political front, the President did much better in the second debate, following a very good clock-cleaning performance by the Vice President the other day. Let us hope this stops Kerry's momentum, and reverses the cataclysmic poll results of the last 10 days. Ominously, Iowa, Pennsylvania, Minnesota, and Ohio, all vital, and states in which the President was either tied or had a small lead, drifted back to Kerry.
Hard work and hard thumping will be needed right through until November 2nd. No more dreams of an Electoral College landslide. Some good news on the war front, some capture, some thwarting of a serious terrorist plot, would be a big help. And don't forget, al Qaeda will try to cast its vote for the buttery-soft Democrats through a terrorist attack between now and the election as well. If they succeed, don't react like the Spanish. Be menschen. Resolve to giv ethe President and the GOP even bigger results.
Friday, October 08, 2004
The Woman In the Black Hijab
Remember her when you go to vote on November 2nd. For crying out loud, don't do anything that will make her happy.
In fact, make her as sad as can be: re-elect President George W. Bush and give him a solid Republican majority in both houses of Congress.
That will make her quite sad and put an end to her dancing keening capers, as her patrons in Iran and Syria will then have their necks in the noose. Otherwise, they will skate to cause or cause to be caused more here.
Great insight from The Anchoress.
In fact, make her as sad as can be: re-elect President George W. Bush and give him a solid Republican majority in both houses of Congress.
That will make her quite sad and put an end to her dancing keening capers, as her patrons in Iran and Syria will then have their necks in the noose. Otherwise, they will skate to cause or cause to be caused more here.
Great insight from The Anchoress.
Columbus Day Weekend
I'll be around, but probably not very vocal, as I am working on an article. You may hear from me a little, though.
Happy Columbus Day!
Happy Columbus Day!
From The Paradise of the Desert Fathers
Two old men had lived together for many years and they had never argued with one another. The first said to the other, "Let us also have an argument like other men." The other replied, "I do not know how to argue." The first said to him,"Look, I will put a brick between us and I will say: 'it is mine'; and you will reply: 'no, it is mine'; and so the fight will begin." So they put a brick between them and the first said, "It is mine", and the other said, "No, it is mine." And the first replied, "If it is yours, take it and go." So they gave it up without being able to find a cause for an argument.
If only all of us could live like that!
If only all of us could live like that!
Thursday, October 07, 2004
"You Can't Win A War If You Don't Believe In Fighting"
"Senator Kerry assures us that he's the one to win a war he calls a mistake, an error, and a diversion," Resident Bush said in a speech designed to reclaim the campaign offensive midway through a series of four debates.
"But you can't win a war if you don't believe in fighting."
Good stuff.
"But you can't win a war if you don't believe in fighting."
Good stuff.
Our Lady of the Rosary
I have a terrific image of Our Lady of the Rosary up on the home page of Recta Ratio: The Yahoo Group, but it is rather fickle. It is a link from Community Webshots, and sometimes it is visible, and sometimes not.
If you can't see it at the Yahoo Group, try the direct link:
http://community.webshots.com/s/image2/5/52/81/47055281JGndfF_ph.jpg
For information on the Rosary, the Brown Scapular, and the Sabbatine Privilege, read this.
If you can't see it at the Yahoo Group, try the direct link:
http://community.webshots.com/s/image2/5/52/81/47055281JGndfF_ph.jpg
For information on the Rosary, the Brown Scapular, and the Sabbatine Privilege, read this.
Chesterton's Lepanto
In honor of today's anniversary of the Battle That Saved Europe, below is the text of G.K. Chestron's poem, Lepanto:
White founts falling in the Courts of the sun,
And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;
There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,
It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard;
It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips;
For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships.
They have dared the white republics up the capes of Italy,
They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea,
And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss,
And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross.
The cold queen of England is looking in the glass;
The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass;
From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun,
And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun.
Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard,
Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred,
Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half attainted stall,
The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,
The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,
That once went singing southward when all the world was young.
In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid,
Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade.
Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,
Don John of Austria is going to the war,
Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold
In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,
Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,
Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes.
Don John laughing in the brave beard curled,
Spurning of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world,
Holding his head up for a flag of all the free.
Love-light of Spain--hurrah! Death-light of Africa! Don John of Austria Is riding to the sea.
Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star,
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)
He moves a mighty turban on the timeless houri's knees,
His turban that is woven of the sunsets and the seas.
He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease,
And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees;
And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bring
Black Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.
Giants and the Genii, Multiplex of wing and eye,
Whose strong obedience broke the sky
When Solomon was king.
They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn,
From the temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn;
They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the sea
Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be,
On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl,
Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl;
They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground,--
They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound.
And he saith, "Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk can hide,
And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide,
And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest,
For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west.
We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun,
Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done.
But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I know
The voice that shook our palaces--four hundred years ago:
It is he that saith not 'Kismet'; it is he that knows not Fate;
It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey at the gate!
It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth,
Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth."
For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns jar,
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)
Sudden and still--hurrah!
Bolt from Iberia!
Don John of Austria
Is gone by Alcalar.
St. Michaels on his Mountain in the sea-roads of the north
(Don John of Austria is girt and going forth.)
Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift
And the sea-folk labour and the red sails lift.
He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone;
The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone;
The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes,
And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,
And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room,
And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom,
And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,--
But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea.
Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse
Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips,
Trumpet that sayeth ha!
Domino gloria! Don John of Austria
Is shouting to the ships.
King Philip's in his closet with the Fleece about his neck
(Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.)
The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin,
And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in.
He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon,
He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon,
And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey
Like plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day,
And death is in the phial and the end of noble work,
But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk.
Don John's hunting, and his hounds have bayed--
Booms away past Italy the rumour of his raid.
Gun upon gun, ha! ha!
Gun upon gun, hurrah!
Don John of Austria
Has loosed the cannonade.
The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke,
(Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.)
The hidden room in man's house where God sits all the year,
The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.
He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea
The crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery;
They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark,
They veil the plumèd lions on the galleys of St. Mark;
And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs,
And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs,
Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines
Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.
They are lost like slaves that sweat, and in the skies of morning hung
The stair-ways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.
They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on
Before the high Kings' horses in the granite of Babylon.
And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hell
Where a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell,
And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign--
(But Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!)
Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,
Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate's sloop,
Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds,
Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,
Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sea
White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.
Vivat Hispania!
Domino Gloria!
Don John of Austria
Has set his people free!
Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath
(Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.)
And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain,
Up which a lean and foolish knight for ever rides in vain,
And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade....
(But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.)
An excellent account of the battle is set out as a chapter in Victor Davis Hanson's Carnage and Culture, which I read a couple of months ago, and recommend.
White founts falling in the Courts of the sun,
And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;
There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,
It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard;
It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips;
For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships.
They have dared the white republics up the capes of Italy,
They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea,
And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss,
And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross.
The cold queen of England is looking in the glass;
The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass;
From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun,
And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun.
Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard,
Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred,
Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half attainted stall,
The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,
The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,
That once went singing southward when all the world was young.
In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid,
Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade.
Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,
Don John of Austria is going to the war,
Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold
In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,
Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,
Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes.
Don John laughing in the brave beard curled,
Spurning of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world,
Holding his head up for a flag of all the free.
Love-light of Spain--hurrah! Death-light of Africa! Don John of Austria Is riding to the sea.
Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star,
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)
He moves a mighty turban on the timeless houri's knees,
His turban that is woven of the sunsets and the seas.
He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease,
And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees;
And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bring
Black Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.
Giants and the Genii, Multiplex of wing and eye,
Whose strong obedience broke the sky
When Solomon was king.
They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn,
From the temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn;
They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the sea
Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be,
On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl,
Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl;
They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground,--
They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound.
And he saith, "Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk can hide,
And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide,
And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest,
For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west.
We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun,
Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done.
But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I know
The voice that shook our palaces--four hundred years ago:
It is he that saith not 'Kismet'; it is he that knows not Fate;
It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey at the gate!
It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth,
Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth."
For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns jar,
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)
Sudden and still--hurrah!
Bolt from Iberia!
Don John of Austria
Is gone by Alcalar.
St. Michaels on his Mountain in the sea-roads of the north
(Don John of Austria is girt and going forth.)
Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift
And the sea-folk labour and the red sails lift.
He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone;
The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone;
The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes,
And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,
And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room,
And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom,
And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,--
But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea.
Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse
Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips,
Trumpet that sayeth ha!
Domino gloria! Don John of Austria
Is shouting to the ships.
King Philip's in his closet with the Fleece about his neck
(Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.)
The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin,
And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in.
He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon,
He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon,
And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey
Like plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day,
And death is in the phial and the end of noble work,
But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk.
Don John's hunting, and his hounds have bayed--
Booms away past Italy the rumour of his raid.
Gun upon gun, ha! ha!
Gun upon gun, hurrah!
Don John of Austria
Has loosed the cannonade.
The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke,
(Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.)
The hidden room in man's house where God sits all the year,
The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.
He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea
The crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery;
They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark,
They veil the plumèd lions on the galleys of St. Mark;
And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs,
And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs,
Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines
Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.
They are lost like slaves that sweat, and in the skies of morning hung
The stair-ways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.
They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on
Before the high Kings' horses in the granite of Babylon.
And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hell
Where a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell,
And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign--
(But Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!)
Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,
Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate's sloop,
Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds,
Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,
Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sea
White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.
Vivat Hispania!
Domino Gloria!
Don John of Austria
Has set his people free!
Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath
(Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.)
And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain,
Up which a lean and foolish knight for ever rides in vain,
And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade....
(But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.)
An excellent account of the battle is set out as a chapter in Victor Davis Hanson's Carnage and Culture, which I read a couple of months ago, and recommend.
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
I Did Not See It
But by all accounts, Vice President Cheney did very well in last night's debate, seeming far more in command than did neophyte Edwards the Ambulance Chaser.
A much better performance than the President's against a Not Ready For Prime Time Player. But it won't help much. In the Tripias polling summary, Kerry has pulled ahead in the projected count of the Electoral College votes (based on current polling by state), and i fear the damage is worse than the poll reflects.
What is it with President Bush that he is tempted to skate so close to the edge, to not take seriously his most dangerous enemies, to make thngs really dangerous, rather than take the course that would lead him to win in a landslide? He did the same thing in 2000.
A much better performance than the President's against a Not Ready For Prime Time Player. But it won't help much. In the Tripias polling summary, Kerry has pulled ahead in the projected count of the Electoral College votes (based on current polling by state), and i fear the damage is worse than the poll reflects.
What is it with President Bush that he is tempted to skate so close to the edge, to not take seriously his most dangerous enemies, to make thngs really dangerous, rather than take the course that would lead him to win in a landslide? He did the same thing in 2000.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
I Think It Is Safe To Say...
Saint Faustina Kowalska
Memorial of the saint to whom the Divine Mercy devotion was revealed.
A good day to remember to say the Chaplet of Divine Mercy at 3:00 pm, if you can.
A good day to remember to say the Chaplet of Divine Mercy at 3:00 pm, if you can.
Monday, October 04, 2004
October 4th
Mum & Dad
Today is not only the feast of St. Francis, but it would also have been my father's 84th birthday.
The 6th anniversary of my mother's death I failed to note here on September 23rd.
Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis. Requiescant in pace.
Amen.
The Old Man
THE TEARS HAVE ALL BEEN SHED NOW.
WE’VE SAID OUR LAST GOODBYE.
HIS SOUL'S BEEN BLESSED,
AND HE’S LAID TO REST,
AND IT’S NOW I FEEL ALONE.
HE WAS MORE THAN JUST A FATHER
My TEACHER MY BEST FRIEND
HE CAN STILL BE HEARD IN THE TUNES WE SHARED
WHEN I PLAY THEM ON My OWN
Chorus:
I NEVER WILL FORGET HIM
FOR HE MADE ME WHAT I AM
THOUGH HE MAY BE GONE
MEMORY LINGERS ON
AND I MISS HIM, THE OLD MAN
AS A BOY HE’D TAKE ME WALKIN'
BY MOUNTAIN FIELD AND STREAM
AND HE’D SHOW ME THINGS,
NOT KNOWN TO KINGS
AND SECRET BETWEEN HIM AND ME
LIKE THE COLORS OF THE PHEASANT
AS HE RISES IN THE DAWN
AND HOW TO FISH AND MAKE A WISH,
BESIDE THE HOLLY TREE
Chorus
I THOUGHT HE’D LIVE FOREVER,
HE SEEMED SO BIG AND STRONG.
BUT THE MINUTES FLY,
AND THE YEARS ROLL BY,
FOR A FATHER AND HIS SON.
AND SUDDENLY WHEN IT HAPPENED
THERE WAS SO MUCH LEFT UNSAID
NO SECOND CHANCE
TO TELL HIM "THANKS!"
FOR EVERYTHING HE’D DONE
Chorus
A Mother's Love's A Blessing
An Irish boy was leaving
Leaving his native home,
Crossing the broad Atlantic,
Once more he wished to roam,
And as he was leaving his mother,
While standing on the Quay,
He threw his arms around her waist
And this to her did say:
Chorus
And as the years grow onward,
I'll settle down in life,
And I'll choose a nice young colleen,
And take her for my wife.
And as the kids grow older,
They'll play around my knee
And I'll teach them the very same lesson
That my mother taught to me:
Chorus:
A mother's love is a blessing,
No matter where you roam.
Keep her while she's living,
You'll miss her when she's gone.
Love her as in childhood,
When feeble, old and grey,
For you'll never miss a mother's love
'til she's buried beneath the clay
The 6th anniversary of my mother's death I failed to note here on September 23rd.
Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis. Requiescant in pace.
Amen.
The Old Man
THE TEARS HAVE ALL BEEN SHED NOW.
WE’VE SAID OUR LAST GOODBYE.
HIS SOUL'S BEEN BLESSED,
AND HE’S LAID TO REST,
AND IT’S NOW I FEEL ALONE.
HE WAS MORE THAN JUST A FATHER
My TEACHER MY BEST FRIEND
HE CAN STILL BE HEARD IN THE TUNES WE SHARED
WHEN I PLAY THEM ON My OWN
Chorus:
I NEVER WILL FORGET HIM
FOR HE MADE ME WHAT I AM
THOUGH HE MAY BE GONE
MEMORY LINGERS ON
AND I MISS HIM, THE OLD MAN
AS A BOY HE’D TAKE ME WALKIN'
BY MOUNTAIN FIELD AND STREAM
AND HE’D SHOW ME THINGS,
NOT KNOWN TO KINGS
AND SECRET BETWEEN HIM AND ME
LIKE THE COLORS OF THE PHEASANT
AS HE RISES IN THE DAWN
AND HOW TO FISH AND MAKE A WISH,
BESIDE THE HOLLY TREE
Chorus
I THOUGHT HE’D LIVE FOREVER,
HE SEEMED SO BIG AND STRONG.
BUT THE MINUTES FLY,
AND THE YEARS ROLL BY,
FOR A FATHER AND HIS SON.
AND SUDDENLY WHEN IT HAPPENED
THERE WAS SO MUCH LEFT UNSAID
NO SECOND CHANCE
TO TELL HIM "THANKS!"
FOR EVERYTHING HE’D DONE
Chorus
A Mother's Love's A Blessing
An Irish boy was leaving
Leaving his native home,
Crossing the broad Atlantic,
Once more he wished to roam,
And as he was leaving his mother,
While standing on the Quay,
He threw his arms around her waist
And this to her did say:
Chorus
And as the years grow onward,
I'll settle down in life,
And I'll choose a nice young colleen,
And take her for my wife.
And as the kids grow older,
They'll play around my knee
And I'll teach them the very same lesson
That my mother taught to me:
Chorus:
A mother's love is a blessing,
No matter where you roam.
Keep her while she's living,
You'll miss her when she's gone.
Love her as in childhood,
When feeble, old and grey,
For you'll never miss a mother's love
'til she's buried beneath the clay
Another Diocese Sees the Traditional Latin Mass Return
This time, it is Covington, Kentucky.
I attended Holy Trinity's Latin Low Mass yesterday. We heard an impassioned sermon from a visiting Franciscan (very appropriate since today is St. Francis' feast day) on the topics of the reality of sin and the necessity of confession.
He was very careful with the rubrics, and demonstrated my contention that, if the priest carefully says the silent part of the Mass to himself, at the same pace as if he were carefully speaking it (in fact carefully articulating each word in his head) even a Low Mass should take almost 2 hours.
Silently speed-reading, skipping portions, mumbling the Latin and running words together (the usual short-cuts) gets the job done quicker, but is not as reverent as what what we were privilged to experience yesterday at Holy Trinity.
Even after the rather long Low Mass, I still wanted to do Adoration in the afternoon, and rather than spend an hour with the reserved Host in the tabernacle, found Saint Clement's Eucharistic Shrine, a few blocks down Boylston Street from St. Francis Chapel, and also run by the Oblates of the Virgin Mary, which has Adoration from 1-6 on Saturday and Sunday (St. Francis Chapel offers Adoration 1:30-4:30 M-F).
New experience, and a lovely setting! A Neo-Gothic stone interior with vaulted ceilings, stained glass, and a lovely monstrance and golden tabernacle encased in an ornate wooden cupboard above the altar. I'll be back.
I attended Holy Trinity's Latin Low Mass yesterday. We heard an impassioned sermon from a visiting Franciscan (very appropriate since today is St. Francis' feast day) on the topics of the reality of sin and the necessity of confession.
He was very careful with the rubrics, and demonstrated my contention that, if the priest carefully says the silent part of the Mass to himself, at the same pace as if he were carefully speaking it (in fact carefully articulating each word in his head) even a Low Mass should take almost 2 hours.
Silently speed-reading, skipping portions, mumbling the Latin and running words together (the usual short-cuts) gets the job done quicker, but is not as reverent as what what we were privilged to experience yesterday at Holy Trinity.
Even after the rather long Low Mass, I still wanted to do Adoration in the afternoon, and rather than spend an hour with the reserved Host in the tabernacle, found Saint Clement's Eucharistic Shrine, a few blocks down Boylston Street from St. Francis Chapel, and also run by the Oblates of the Virgin Mary, which has Adoration from 1-6 on Saturday and Sunday (St. Francis Chapel offers Adoration 1:30-4:30 M-F).
New experience, and a lovely setting! A Neo-Gothic stone interior with vaulted ceilings, stained glass, and a lovely monstrance and golden tabernacle encased in an ornate wooden cupboard above the altar. I'll be back.
Another Diocese Sees the Traditional Latin Mass Return
This time, it is Covington, Kentucky.
I attended Holy Trinity's Latin Low Mass yesterday. We heard an impassioned sermon from a visiting Franciscan (very appropriate since today is St. Francis' feast day) on the topics of the reality of sin and the necessity of confession.
He was very careful with the rubrics, and demonstrated my contention that, if the priest carefully says the silent part of the Mass to himself, at the same pace as if he were carefully speaking it (in fact carefully articulating each word in his head) even a Low Mass should take almost 2 hours.
Silently speed-reading, skipping portions, mumbling the Latin and running words together (the usual short-cuts) gets the job done quicker, but is not as reverent as what what we were privilged to experience yesterday at Holy Trinity.
Even after the rather long Low Mass, I still wanted to do Adoration in the afternoon, and rather than spend an hour with the reserved Host in the tabernacle, found Saint Clement's Eucharistic Shrine, a few blocks down Boylston Street from St. Francis Chapel, and also run by the Oblates of the Virgin Mary, which has Adoration from 1-6 on Saturday and Sunday (St. Francis Chapel offers Adoration 1:30-4:30 M-F). New experience, and a lovely setting! A Neo-Gothic stone interior with vaulted ceilings, stained glass, and a lovely monstrance and golden tabernacle encased in an ornate wooden cupboard above the altar. I'll be back.
I attended Holy Trinity's Latin Low Mass yesterday. We heard an impassioned sermon from a visiting Franciscan (very appropriate since today is St. Francis' feast day) on the topics of the reality of sin and the necessity of confession.
He was very careful with the rubrics, and demonstrated my contention that, if the priest carefully says the silent part of the Mass to himself, at the same pace as if he were carefully speaking it (in fact carefully articulating each word in his head) even a Low Mass should take almost 2 hours.
Silently speed-reading, skipping portions, mumbling the Latin and running words together (the usual short-cuts) gets the job done quicker, but is not as reverent as what what we were privilged to experience yesterday at Holy Trinity.
Even after the rather long Low Mass, I still wanted to do Adoration in the afternoon, and rather than spend an hour with the reserved Host in the tabernacle, found Saint Clement's Eucharistic Shrine, a few blocks down Boylston Street from St. Francis Chapel, and also run by the Oblates of the Virgin Mary, which has Adoration from 1-6 on Saturday and Sunday (St. Francis Chapel offers Adoration 1:30-4:30 M-F). New experience, and a lovely setting! A Neo-Gothic stone interior with vaulted ceilings, stained glass, and a lovely monstrance and golden tabernacle encased in an ornate wooden cupboard above the altar. I'll be back.
