Legionaries of Christ - the past is so close, it hurts

It's the next chapter, I suppose. Vistations from Rome, to all houses and facilities of the Congregation.

When I read, recently, that the founder had died last year, I was not so affected. When I read, about the same time, he had fathered a child twenty-some years ago, I was still not very affected. This is different.

It seems I had ceased to care so much about the founder, this man I used to call Nuestro Padre. It was between him and God. I had no part.

In truth, I have no part in the affairs of the Congregation either. Still, this feels different to me. The first was one man's fate. This is about the fate of many. Many who took up a holy challenge to add to the good in the world.

Many whom, I firmly believe, were betrayed. Not "simply" by the founder, he who was supposed to model how a Legionary lived both the exterior and interior life. Again, this was just one man, albeit a man with a crucial role to play. But, one man with the frailties of men.

But the Congregation betrayed them also. The Congregation in the persons of the superiors at the highest levels. It is not believable that the founder's activities were not known to some.

Yet they kept silent, the least they did. They vehemently denied there was anything to be said, somewhat worse to do. They cast out those who spoke up, the worst they did.

One man may fail. The Congregation and many men failed the members. That is less excuseable.

Time may not really heal, but it does provide distance

I found out today that the founder of the religious congregation of which I was a member died last year. I hadn't known that. I find myself less impacted by the news than I might have expected to be some years ago.

This, the man I knew as Nuestro Padre.

The man I came to realize I didn't know nearly as well as I had thought.

That chapter is closed now. Further revelations about his life have come to light. But they leave me with a detached sadness. Little else.

And, oddly enough, that itself saddens me. For there is a wellspring within me that is fed from my time in the congregation.

Nothing is perfect, neither perfectly good nor perfectly bad. No one is perfect, neither perfectly good nor perfectly bad. And yet, and yet...

There is a wellspring within me that is fed from my time in the congregation. Much that is good in me flows from that. Much of what is real.

It is strange to contemplate the flaw that existed at the core of who they are with detached sadness. I feel oddly rudderless.

And so it begins...

This was the first Presidential Inauguration I ever watched. But I could hear my Mother's voice in my ear reminding me that history should be seen when it is happening. It is something to do with witness.

And so we, as children, saw Pope Paul VI in Israel and we were allowed stay up impossibly late to watch the first landing by humans on the moon. Truth to tell, it was impossibly late for me - I fell asleep.

And so I watched the inauguration of the 44th American President - playing out on my computer screen while work played out on another.

I hope they had a good day. The next many are going to be tough.

But Peggy was right. History needs witness.

Today was a day to remember.

...and the darkness did not overcome it

On and off today I have come across references to the lunar orbit of people from Earth that gave us the "Earthrise" photo below. The themes of light and dark and their interaction form the foundation of so much literature, cultural reference and religious expression.

From the old monuments that celebrated, and measured, the return of the sun to the expressions of light emerging from darkness in many religious texts to the image of the Earth as she rises from inky darkness over the Lunar horizon.

Powerful, powerful images.

The images apply as neatly to the current situation in the world as they did to the builders of Newgrange in Ireland. That is, imperfectly and through the lens of our own beliefs.

Some, such as a commenter on a news site today who felt it necessary to say that the image did not display a "rise" because the Moon was off to the right, cannot see the image at all. They are mired in the details and focused on what isn't.

For others these themes have a distinct religious flavor - with more or less focus on light or dark depending on how apocalyptical or transcendent their religious flavor is.

My father was a pessimist in many ways - with one shining exception. He had a profound faith in our ability to work our way out of our difficulties. By "our" I mean the race, we wonderfully flawed humans.

At times I have caught myself almost planning for the self-destruction of the human race. Not hard to do with the gloom and darkness to be heard and seen all around.

I prefer my father's faith - and most often share it.

As so many of our belief systems have always proclaimed - the darkness does not prevail. This, for me, is a fundamental strand of belief in ourselves. So fundamental that, for me, it is truth.

Merry Christmas to all and, from the depth of Winter in the Northern Hemisphere, may the returning light warm you to the core.

And a light shone in the darkness...

I am perverse enough that I'll curse the darkness, nay rejoice in it, rather than light any candles.

But, I am also inconsistent. So, Monday after work found me standing on a street corner, candle in hand, joining others around the Bay Area in a candlelight vigil to underscore that the passing of Proposition 8 is not right nor just nor, in any way, does it defend traditional marriage.

People (Catholic bishops included) have become very fond of this phrase "traditional marriage". Perhaps it might be valuable to ask the multitudes of women how they were served over the millennia as victims of "traditional marriage". This, using the word "traditional" in its dictionary meaning as long-established custom.

How did being counted among the sheep and goats as property serve them? Or as a door prize in some political deal between rival heads of state/province/stupid-little-patch-of-ground.

And how can anyone, as the Catholic bishops did on November 5th, say that such marriages provide the optimal environment for raising children?

Marriage has for most of human history been a socio-economic affair with political overtones. This marrying primarily for love is a late arrival for society as a whole.

And, even with that, here it is again being used in a political way.

The Catholic bishops, usually so distant from things physical, suggest that marriage requires the "plumbing" to be different - for so nature has intended. Let me not look too closely at the Catholic Church's track record with natural science.

Rather let me state quite strongly that nature has nothing to do with marriage. Marriage is a societal construct. Nature is indeed concerned with mating and, please don't tell the bishops, sex. But not marriage.

Why my focus on Catholic bishops? Sorry, Roman Catholicism is my tradition - something that has been part of my life since childhood.

And they make it difficult, sometimes more than others.

Impressive

There is a lot to be said for pragmatism and flexibility. And even more to be said for courageous vision.

My father commented at least once that Americans are a pragmatic people. I caught the hint that this, for him, was not a significant virtue.

My belief is that Americans demonstrated pragmatism, flexibility and much courageous vision yesterday.

You should be proud of yourselves.

From an outsider looking in.

My father thought himself a stranger in some ways too.

When in the car, particularly by myself, I listen to the radio. Lately I have noticed I am listening far less to NPR than previously. Two reasons suggest themselves:

• The new car comes equipped with a subscription to XM Radio. And XM has a particularly good classical station. Three of them in fact.



• 
  



• The election season is well upon us now and so much of the radio coverage centers on this or that politician, the doings, the reported doings (which may not be the same thing) and the perspectives of so many commentators on how such doings might be impact - or not - the election's outcome.

The reality is a combination of the two. Extraordinary classical music, commercial free, full-length pieces with knowledgeable introductions. Difficult to pass up. Particularly given the dearth of local classical stations.

But also, and this is a singular perspective I know, this is not my election. I live in this country, contribute as a part of its tax base, may be drafted (though certainly unlikely given my age) to defend its borders and interests. But I am not an American citizen. I have no say in the governing of this republic.

Interestingly enough, I have no say in the governing of the republic which holds my allegiance either. Ireland does not, for good reason, permit those not living there and not contributing directly to the life of the society have a say in its governance.

At one time I had thought to seek US citizenship. I live here and am impressed by the country, the people and the governmental structures in place. They, the structures, are subject to imperfect implementation and were designed by imperfect people. But they have an elegant simplicity that remains, however encrusted they have become over the past pair of centuries.

But I am Irish. I can no more cease being Irish than the rain can cease falling on that island on the edge of Europe. 'Tis the land of my birth. The first to hold my allegiance, by accident of birth it is true. But its stamp is on me.

I am Saoránach d'Éirinn - a citizen of Ireland. The root word for citizen in Gaelic is saor - free. How could I surrender that title for the mere word "citizen"? And, while Ireland formally permits the concept and actuality of dual-citizenship, the US does not.

I could not say, as required by the Oath of Allegiance for Naturalized Citizens, "that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen".

I am Irish.

So, here I remain. An alien on this shore. I can, and do, participate in much of the life of this society. But while others prepare themselves to have their say in the governance of this vibrant land that is the United States of America, I will be listening to the music of dead European longhairs.

And some from the New World too.

Sometimes the sword wins a round or two

People at work, and more than at work if the truth be told, know me as a gadgeteer (if you will permit the word). iPhone, a MacBook Air, electronic readers, an early user of a Blackberry - before it was even a phone.

So, it is amusing to them to discover that I write with a fountain pen. Fountain pens, actually. I tend to have three with me at work.

Three? Why more than one, I was asked. I demonstrated how the two I had with me in a meeting had different colored inks. But why three? Because the desktop pen case I have holds three - the best answer I have I'm afraid.

I blame my brother.

My sister-in-law and he gave me a fountain pen as a gift. I was best man at their wedding and such is the American custom. That was one. I now have twelve (some of them further gifts I might add - but others I have added to my collection myself).

It can happen. I know a few collectors of fountain pens. It's a bug that bites deep.

Some of mine are wonderful work-a-day pens. Others? Others are functional works of art. I like the beauty, the way they slow me down when writing, the ritual of taking care of them, of inking them.

But, as my beloved has told me, I am enamored of rite and ritual.

My most recent pen is rather special. A limited edition. It commemorates an Italian Journalist, Ilaria Alpi - about whom I knew nothing but know a little now. The pen was created to commemorate her death - in 1994. Only 1,994 of the version I now own were manufactured. The pen is known as the Delta "Peace". It is beautiful, without doubt.

And I like the associations it has. Now, there is an occupation that has the promise of benefit to society. And, as was the case here, far more risk than my own.