Sunday, October 27, 2013
Friday, October 25, 2013
Do you have a vocation to religious life?
Every Catholic goes through it. I did. Everyone I know did. A lot of my friends spent time in seminaries, sometimes lots of time, and in convents. Quite honestly, folks, the pickings are slim out there in NewChurchland and I think that one of the more incalculable losses of the post-Asteroid Church are the lost vocations. Women who wanted to give their lives away to God for prayer and service and were confronted with...well, as we have seen. Men who would have devoted themselves to the solemn celebration of the Mass and the cure of souls have gone into business instead because of bad bishops and worse seminary rectors.
But things are different now, at least a little. There really have been a number of small groups coming to light in the last few years who seem genuinely to be doing the Real Thing. I have been keeping notes. I've taken to calling them crocuses; brave little flowers that spring up while all about still looks steadfastly wintry, some of them pushing determinedly up under the hard crust of snow.
No matter what the White Witch may think, it cannot remain always winter.
But the question, Do you have a vocation to the religious life? is one that continues to cause confusion. The collapse of All Things Catholic have left most of us without the spiritual tools to answer this deceptively straightforward question. The noisesome NewChurchian expression "vocational discernment" has come to mean a perhaps endless period of introspection and self-questioning that can drive some people quite dotty. I've seen people, even while receiving "spiritual direction," tie themselves into knots, convincing themselves (in at least one case of my acquaintance) that their revulsion for the notion, the feeling of despair and horror, are sure signs that they're being called.
We are, in our times of spiritual destitution, left to our own devices. We are encouraged by the general culture to think that decisions must be based on feelings. But these are so changable as to be useless as guides to judge what we ought to do. Our times are also rather short on self-knowledge. Oh, I'm sure we're all taught to be "in touch with our feelings" but how long does it take most of us to figure out what are our major character traits, and flaws?
There are all manner of silly "test your personality" quizzes on the internet, and I'm sure we've all indulged in them for amusement now and then, but self-knowledge requires clear thinking, and a certain amount of courage. What sort of people we are can sometimes be difficult to face, and we are again hampered by the culture that does not encourage the virtue of manfully facing up to realities.
In the old days, "vocational discernment" was much more straightforward. Before we began psychologising ourselves into knots, the questions asked by a priest to a young woman or man who came to him asking about religious life were blunt. And the conclusion more easily acted upon.
Below, we have a list of questions that used to be fairly standard, but I think which rarely get asked nowadays. I found them years ago on the website of the SSPX in Asia, but don't let that deter you. They originate from a little manual written by Fr. William Doyle, an Irish priest who was killed giving aid and comfort to dying soldiers at the Battle of Passchendaele on 16 August 1917.
Some years ago, I was talking about these things with a good bishop of the Church. I expressed my frustration with the advice I had received so far, saying that I was no further ahead in my "vocational discernment" than when I had started, being plagued with doubts and hesitations that resulted in me waffling back and forth over the edge.
He said that I was doing it wrong. The only way to "figure out" if you have a vocation to the religious life is to try it. The "discernment period" is what the postulancy and novitiate is for.
Here is the list of questions Fr. Doyle posed to his directees:
1. A desire to have a religious vocation, together with the conviction that God is calling you. This desire is generally most strongly felt when the soul is calm, after Holy Communion, and in time of retreat.
2. A growing attraction for prayer and holy things in general, together with a longing for a hidden life and a desire to be more closely united to God.
3. To have a hatred of the world, a conviction of its hollowness and insufficiency to satisfy the soul. This feeling is generally strongest in the midst of worldly amusement.
4. A fear of sin, into which it is easy to fall, and a longing to escape from the dangers and temptations of the world.
5. It is sometimes the sign of a vocation when a person fears that God may call them; when he prays not to have it and cannot banish the thought from his mind. If the vocation is sound, it will soon give place to an attraction, through Father Lehmkulhl says: “One need not have a natural inclination for the religious life; on the contrary, a divine vocation is compatible with a natural repugnance for the state.”
6. To have zeal for souls. To realize something of the value of an immortal soul, and to desire to co-operate in their salvation.
7. To desire to devote our whole life to obtain the conversion of one dear to us.
8. To desire to atone for our own sins or those of others, and to fly from the temptations which we feel too weak to resist.
9. An attraction for the state of virginity.
10. The happiness which the thought of religious life brings, its spiritual helps, its peace, merit and reward.
11. A longing to sacrifice oneself and abandon all for the love of Jesus Christ, and to suffer for His sake.
12. A willingness in one not having any dowry, or much education, to be received in any capacity, is a proof of a real vocation.
He notes that these are "some of the ordinary indications of a vocation, taken principally from the works of Father Gautrelet, S.J., and the Retreat Manual. No one need expect to have all these marks, but if some of them at least are not perceived, the person may safely say he has no vocation."
On the other hand, consider this. I have been told by reliable persons that if you do have some or many of these signs, there is a clear moral obligation to try to fulfill a vocation to the consecrated life.
So, chew on that for a minute...
~
Saturday, October 19, 2013
Friday, October 18, 2013
The Universal Call to Holiness
Hey Catholics,
I could use some help on a project. I'm doing a piece on what I call the Do-it-Yourselfers," saints who became very holy and/or mystics without entering holy orders or belonging to a religious order. Lay people who focused their lives totally on God and achieved great heights of holiness.
In Rome we see a lot of people who have, for whatever reason, been unable or unwilling to join the religious orders of the Church in their current form. They sometimes go so far as to make themselves a habit, and spend a lot of time in Rome's 900 churches, praying and making reparation. Some of them are probably at least a little nuts, and in other, less tolerant nations would likely be locked away or regarded as "homeless" and shunned. Here, they are are at least partly revered and are treated with a certain amount of deference.
Italians and other Catholics remember people like St. Benedict Labre, and Gemma Galgani, Anna Maria Taigi and Margaret of Castello.
It's these kinds of saints and blesseds I'd like to do a piece on, particularly the ones who most people might not have heard of, to encourage people in our... errm... difficult times.
The criteria are simply great holiness and the lay state. Members of secular/third orders, oblates and whatnot too.
Anyone got a favourite lay saint? Suggestions in the commbox pls.
St. Catherine of Sienna
St. Rose of Viterbo
Bl. Margaret of Castello
Bl. Mrs. Anna Maria Taigi
St. Benedict Joseph Labre
Bl. Pier Giorgio Frassati
Bl. Ivan Merz
Bl. Frédéric Ozanam
St. Maria Goretti
St. Thomas More
St. Giuseppe Moscati
~
Nature isn't nice
A couple of friends of mine share a rented apartment here in beautiful Santa Marinella on the ground floor with quite a beautiful garden. It's a pretty big score, actually, since the landlord does all the garden work and my friends are both guys and don't really do gardening, but of course, like normal humans, enjoy having nice plants and flowers to look at outside their terrace.
One day we were all having a barbeque on the terrace, enjoying the beautiful summer day and looking at all the lovely flowers. One of our friends pointed to the tree with the big white trumpet-shaped flowers hanging down and said, "Wow, that's pretty. What is it?" As he said this, he went to poke it.
I stopped him.
Brugmansia has got to be one of the evilest plants nature has ever thrown at unsuspecting gardeners. I first saw one in the big dome botanical garden at Queen Elizabeth Park in Vancouver. It was huge; at least 20 feet high, and the flowers were double. It was so beautiful I immediately wanted one at home, and never forgot it. One of the most exotically beautiful plants I've yet seen.
Seeing that they grow here outdoors and a lot of people have one in their garden, I looked it up to see what it was called so I could ask my friendly garden centre guy for one. After that I decided not only that I wouldn't get one, but that Brugmansia was one of the signs of the End Times. I don't think I recall any plant other than certain species of mushrooms being so horrifyingly poisonous.
Get this:
Brugmansia have also traditionally been used in many South American indigenous cultures in medical preparations and as a ritualistic hallucinogen for divination, to communicate with ancestors, as a poison in sorcery and black magic, and for prophecy. Medicinally... external uses include the treating of aches and pains, dermatitis, orchitis, arthritis, rheumatism, headaches, infections, and as an anti-inflammatory. They have been used internally much more rarely due to the inherent danger of ingestion. ...In a concentrated or refined form, derivatives of Brugmansia are also used for murder, seduction, and robbery.
Apparently, it also makes you do un-fricken-speakable things to your loved ones...
Several South American cultures have used Brugmansia as a treatment for unruly children, that they might be admonished directly by their ancestors in the spirit world, and thereby become more compliant. [!!!bloody hell!!!]
...it has been used to drug wives and slaves before they were buried alive with their dead lord...
[What?!! What?!!]
All parts of Brugmansia are poisonous, with the seeds and leaves being especially dangerous...Effects of ingestion can include paralysis of smooth muscles, confusion, tachycardia, dry mouth, diarrhea, migraine headaches, visual and auditory hallucinations, mydriasis, rapid onset cycloplegia, and death.
The hallucinogenic effects ...[are] "terrifying rather than pleasurable"..."a powerful trance with violent and unpleasant effects, sickening aftereffects, and at times temporary insanity". These hallucinations are often characterized by complete loss of awareness that one is hallucinating, disconnection from reality...one example reported in Psychiatry and Clinical Neuroscience of a young man who amputated his own penis and tongue after drinking only 1 cup of Brugmansia tea.
The Swiss naturalist and explorer Johann von Tschudi described the effects of Brugmansia ingestion on one individual in Peru:
Soon after drinking the Tonga, the man fell into a dull brooding, he stared vacantly at the ground, his mouth was closed firmly, almost convulsively and his nostrils were flared. Cold sweat covered his forehead. He was deathly pale. The jugular veins on his throat were swollen as large as a finger and he was wheezing as his chest rose and sank slowly. His arms hung down stiffly by his body. Then his eyes misted over and filled with huge tears and his lips twitched convulsively for a brief moment. His carotids were visibly beating, his respiration increased and his extremities twitched and shuddered of their own accord. This condition would have lasted about a quarter of an hour, then all these actions increased in intensity. His eyes were now dry but had become bright red and rolled about wildly in their sockets and all his facial muscles were horribly distorted. A thick white foam leaked out between his half open lips. The pulses on his forehead and throat were beating too fast to be counted. His breathing was short, extraordinarily fast and did not seem to lift the chest, which was visibly fibrillating. A mass of sticky sweat covered his whole body which continued to be shaken by the most dreadful convulsions. His limbs were hideously contorted. He alternated between murmuring quietly and incomprehensibly and uttering loud, heart-rending shrieks, howling dully and moaning and groaning.
Did he start chanting, "Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn" as well?!
They should re-name this horrifying insanity-plant "Miskatonia Arkhamensis".
"Some municipalities prohibit the purchase, sale, or cultivation of Brugmansia plants."
I should bloody well hope so!
I've been kind of a half-assed amateur naturalist most of my life, and one of the most useful and important rules I've learned from it is: nature wants to kill you. All of nature. All of the time.
When it isn't actively trying to kill you, it's trying to breed on you.
Nature isn't nice.
~
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
Monday, October 14, 2013
Blackout
It was a tree branch?! Seriously?
Remember August 14th, 2003?
That day, I woke up and debated which shoes to wear, the cute pointy ones or the practical flat ones. My guardian angel must have been whispering because I picked the flat comfortable ones. That afternoon I had a doctor's appointment somewhere way out in Scarborough, so I left the office early and got on the subway. I had transferred from the subway to a bus about five minutes before we started noticing that traffic was suddenly insane, and that all the traffic lights were off. Then I saw that the big box stores (Scarborough! yuck!) were all closed early.
Still didn't realise what was really going on until I got to the doctor's office and the building was shut and all the lights off. Some people were clustered around a van listening to the radio. That was when we learned that the lights were off on the whole right hand side of the continent.
Believe me, some thoughts about the end of the world and the post-apocalyptic movies I'd seen flashed through my mind.
Still, if civilisation were going to collapse, best that I be at home, so I started the long trek back across the city. Got a diesel bus back down as far as Bloor street at Pape station, but after that, had to join the throng heading out of the city on foot. And yes, people were standing in the middle of intersections directing traffic. A guy came out of his shop at one point when I was sitting having a rest, and handed me an ice cream bar. Others were selling bottles of water from ice chests for a greatly inflated price.
It took me about three hours to get home, including a stop at a pub to use the loo, feeling my way to the back of the place in the pitch dark. When I got home, I found all was pretty calm. I sat on the front porch, catching the last of the evening light, reading my book and waiting for my roommates. I put a bunch of the perishables into the freezer and made some dinner by candlelight.
A friend from work stopped by, saying she'd been dispatched by our office manager to see if we were OK over at Muggeridge Manor. They were worried in the office because they'd tried to phone, but, though the phone lines were still working ours was off. It was because our phone was a cordless and needed electricity (this was before every human was issued with a cell). So I invited Gillian to stay for dinner, instead of having to trudge all the way home.
We went for a stroll down Bloor street to see how the apocalypse was going. Disappointingly, people were quite cheerful. Lots of people had brought out tables and chairs and candles, and were sitting on their doorsteps chatting with neighbours and passers by, and letting the last of the commuters/walkers use their facilities. A single ice cream van, its on-board generator run on gas, was blazing with light and song, and doing a roaring business. It was August and about 28 degrees. The only other place with power was a Thai restaurant, so we went in and paid for food we weren't very hungry for to enjoy the cool air.
Another friend, who had power at his apartment building, came by and invited us over to his place, but we all decided to stay put for the night, and so had quite a fun evening. We decided to drink up the remaining mixer while there was still ice.
That night, I went to bed and made sure to switch on my radio so if the power came back on it would play and let me know. The next morning, Friday I think, I woke up, looked over at the dead radio and thought, "SNOW DAY!!" And bounced cheerily out of bed to make breakfast for everyone.
We had a very pleasant day, all sitting on the porch, reading the paper (the National Post had put out a five page edition that morning... the Toronto Star and the Globe were out for the count) and drinking vermouth and soda water. Our favourite diner, Tasty's, was open so we just had our meals out.
They didn't get the power back onto our street until Sunday afternoon. John Muggeridge said it was because there was one house on the block that had voted Tory and still refused to recycle.
It was fun. But I remember worrying about the water. Toronto pumps water out of Lake Ontario. The pumps are electric. There is no more than a few day's reserve. I really did wonder how friendly everyone was going to be when the water wasn't coming out of the taps any more.
~
Remember August 14th, 2003?
That day, I woke up and debated which shoes to wear, the cute pointy ones or the practical flat ones. My guardian angel must have been whispering because I picked the flat comfortable ones. That afternoon I had a doctor's appointment somewhere way out in Scarborough, so I left the office early and got on the subway. I had transferred from the subway to a bus about five minutes before we started noticing that traffic was suddenly insane, and that all the traffic lights were off. Then I saw that the big box stores (Scarborough! yuck!) were all closed early.
Still didn't realise what was really going on until I got to the doctor's office and the building was shut and all the lights off. Some people were clustered around a van listening to the radio. That was when we learned that the lights were off on the whole right hand side of the continent.
Believe me, some thoughts about the end of the world and the post-apocalyptic movies I'd seen flashed through my mind.
Still, if civilisation were going to collapse, best that I be at home, so I started the long trek back across the city. Got a diesel bus back down as far as Bloor street at Pape station, but after that, had to join the throng heading out of the city on foot. And yes, people were standing in the middle of intersections directing traffic. A guy came out of his shop at one point when I was sitting having a rest, and handed me an ice cream bar. Others were selling bottles of water from ice chests for a greatly inflated price.
It took me about three hours to get home, including a stop at a pub to use the loo, feeling my way to the back of the place in the pitch dark. When I got home, I found all was pretty calm. I sat on the front porch, catching the last of the evening light, reading my book and waiting for my roommates. I put a bunch of the perishables into the freezer and made some dinner by candlelight.
A friend from work stopped by, saying she'd been dispatched by our office manager to see if we were OK over at Muggeridge Manor. They were worried in the office because they'd tried to phone, but, though the phone lines were still working ours was off. It was because our phone was a cordless and needed electricity (this was before every human was issued with a cell). So I invited Gillian to stay for dinner, instead of having to trudge all the way home.
We went for a stroll down Bloor street to see how the apocalypse was going. Disappointingly, people were quite cheerful. Lots of people had brought out tables and chairs and candles, and were sitting on their doorsteps chatting with neighbours and passers by, and letting the last of the commuters/walkers use their facilities. A single ice cream van, its on-board generator run on gas, was blazing with light and song, and doing a roaring business. It was August and about 28 degrees. The only other place with power was a Thai restaurant, so we went in and paid for food we weren't very hungry for to enjoy the cool air.
Another friend, who had power at his apartment building, came by and invited us over to his place, but we all decided to stay put for the night, and so had quite a fun evening. We decided to drink up the remaining mixer while there was still ice.
That night, I went to bed and made sure to switch on my radio so if the power came back on it would play and let me know. The next morning, Friday I think, I woke up, looked over at the dead radio and thought, "SNOW DAY!!" And bounced cheerily out of bed to make breakfast for everyone.
We had a very pleasant day, all sitting on the porch, reading the paper (the National Post had put out a five page edition that morning... the Toronto Star and the Globe were out for the count) and drinking vermouth and soda water. Our favourite diner, Tasty's, was open so we just had our meals out.
They didn't get the power back onto our street until Sunday afternoon. John Muggeridge said it was because there was one house on the block that had voted Tory and still refused to recycle.
It was fun. But I remember worrying about the water. Toronto pumps water out of Lake Ontario. The pumps are electric. There is no more than a few day's reserve. I really did wonder how friendly everyone was going to be when the water wasn't coming out of the taps any more.
~
Sunday, October 13, 2013
Who's the nerdiest one of all?
OK, here's a nerd-tip for the next time you're playing Star Trek with the kids. (Or, you know, not with the kids...as the case may be.)
Go to Youtube and type in "Star Trek TOS bridge sound effect". You will find several 3-5 minute videos. Make a playlist of these. Then, open a second tab and type "Star Trek TOS enterprise engine sound". You will (perhaps sadly) find an assortment of "ambient engine noise" videos, some as long as 24 hours!. Pick a good one, and play while playing the playlist in the first tab at the same time.
Plug in your best Bose computer speakers, the really bass-y ones, and you're on. the. bridge.
Don't you love the internet?
Me too.
But don't try this at home with your home-made lirpa, ok?
~
Go to Youtube and type in "Star Trek TOS bridge sound effect". You will find several 3-5 minute videos. Make a playlist of these. Then, open a second tab and type "Star Trek TOS enterprise engine sound". You will (perhaps sadly) find an assortment of "ambient engine noise" videos, some as long as 24 hours!. Pick a good one, and play while playing the playlist in the first tab at the same time.
Plug in your best Bose computer speakers, the really bass-y ones, and you're on. the. bridge.
Don't you love the internet?
Me too.
But don't try this at home with your home-made lirpa, ok?
~
Join me and together, we'll RULE THE SKIES!!!
I realise I'll probably end my days in an EU re-education camp, but one can dream.
And my favourite dream is that I'm one of those RV people and live my life "on the road", only my RV is a 66-ton vertical takeoff and landing, ballastless, variable buoyancy, rigid-fame cargo airship, kitted out as a Bond-villain lair ... and there is no road.
And my pet (aside from Winnie, of course) is a flying robot penguin named Oobleck.
My mother was an engineer. I coulda been an engineer...
Damn...
~ * ~
Oh, so this is where all that extra traffic is coming from. Rod Dreher, the apostate who now makes a living talking about how he'll never return to the Truth Faith because... ummm...
Yeah, buzz off, heathens.
~
And my favourite dream is that I'm one of those RV people and live my life "on the road", only my RV is a 66-ton vertical takeoff and landing, ballastless, variable buoyancy, rigid-fame cargo airship, kitted out as a Bond-villain lair ... and there is no road.
And my pet (aside from Winnie, of course) is a flying robot penguin named Oobleck.
My mother was an engineer. I coulda been an engineer...
Damn...
~ * ~
Oh, so this is where all that extra traffic is coming from. Rod Dreher, the apostate who now makes a living talking about how he'll never return to the Truth Faith because... ummm...
Yeah, buzz off, heathens.
~
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