Soliloquy in an International Cloister

Organizational cheerleading

2011-12-12T17:39:00.001+01:00

The Roman Catholic Church in the United States is now in the third week of using the new translation of the Roman Missal. In Australia, they started using it earlier so I was able to practice the new responses when I visited Down Under in November. Many people had called for a new missal to correct some of the former translation's deficiencies, but along the way someone in the Vatican decided that the translators could no longer use the tried and true "dynamic equivalence" style of translation, but had to adhere to a slavishly literal translation of the Latin original. Thus "Et cum spiritu tuo", which the old missal translated as "And also with you", is now "And with your spirit". Even Fr. Reginald Foster, formerly the Vatican's chief Latinist, was somewhat annoyed by the literalness of the new translation.

Somewhat off topic, but I am old enough to have attended Mass when it was still said in Latin. I remember hearing "Et cum spiritu tuo" and thinking that it must have been God's phone number. Now back to the topic at hand.

I am not a huge fan of the new translation, but as a part of the organization, I feel I need to defend, or at least not detract, publicly from the organization's decisions. So I have developed the following set of responses to use when people ask me what I think of the new translation:

1. It's Latin-icious!
2. It's not nearly as bad as I thought it would be.
3. I only notice the difference when I am paying attention, which is not often.
4. It's better than nothing.
5. If you don't like it, join the Episcopalians. And take your spirit with you.
6. Whatever.

Ponte fixed maximus!

2011-09-29T16:39:00.000+01:00

In what has become a staple of my Sunday mornings in Rome, I bicycled northward along the Tiber River last Sunday. When I reached the ill-fated bridge over the ravine, what did my wondrous eyes perceive but that the bridge had been repaired, a little less than a month after it was damaged. In Roman terms, that is the blink of an eye. Mira culo!, as we would say. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the freshly repaired bridge.

Most Sundays, my goal is to reach the Ponte Castel Giubileo, which is almost exactly 18 km from the monastery. It isn't easy to see in this photograph, but there is covered bicycle path on the side of this bridge that shelters riders from the elements while giving them a wonderful view of the river valley. While it is true that there are many cities in the world that have a much better infrastructure for bicyclists, it isn't as if Rome has done nothing for us.

Tales of a city priest

2011-09-25T17:58:00.001+01:00

So this couple comes to see one of our brothers, the pastor of a large, city parish in southern Brazil, and asks to have a Medieval-style wedding. What could possibly be wrong with that, he thinks. Then comes the day of the wedding — everyone, from the wedding party to the guests, shows up wearing Shrek costumes! There was even someone dressed as a donkey (unfortunately, it was not Eddie Murphy).

To make matters worse, a journalist from the local newspaper was on hand to cover the wedding, which was given coverage, including photographs, in the following day's edition. That resulted in the priest receiving a rather unpleasant call from the bishop.

I get the bishop's point about movie-themed weddings in church. Today you allow Shrek, and tomorrow it's Planet of the Apes. On the face of it, however, if the newspaper had not reported that this was a Shrek-themed wedding, it is possible that no one would have given a second thought about the choice of attire. Have you seen some of the outlandish things people wear to their weddings these days?! In fact, this wedding party is dressed quite modestly, although their color coordination is somewhat lacking.

All in all, it could have been worse:

Mourning becomes BroLo

2011-09-01T17:01:00.000+01:00

I was in a god-forsaken corner of the world on July 4th so I missed the news about Otto von Hapsburg's death. Just because we Americans threw off the shackles of monarchy (and replaced them with the shackles of the masses) doesn't mean that I am insensitive to these things. As a full-blooded Austrian, I had great respect for Otto ... even though I heard about him for the first time today.

There is a traditional ritual used when burying a member of the Hapsburg family in the Imperial Crypt in Vienna (if you can read German, you can read the transcript here). Maybe it is due to the last, dying remnants of the hippy in me—I'm always happy to see "the man" taken down a notch or two— but I really like this ceremony. It somehow feels right that the playing field should get re-leveled before the Final Judgment. None of our titles or accomplishments matter; we all stand before our Maker denuded of everything except who we really are.

Come to think of it, I'm not sure I find that very comforting.

Bicycling in Rome II

2011-08-28T18:04:00.000+01:00

In an earlier post about bicycling in Rome, I mentioned that a bridge along the Tiber River bike path had been inexplicably closed for four years. It finally opened last March after the Inspector for Aged Oak in the Wooden Plank Committee of the Bridge Inspection Office of the Parks and Recreation Department certified its safety after deciding that he was too tired to go all the way to Tor di Quinto to look at a stupid bridge. As far as I can tell, the only change they made was to paint the railings. I have used that bridge for the last three Sundays while bicycling from the monastery to the Ponte Castel Giubileo and back—about 36 km altogether. It's wonderful! And on Sunday mornings in August, most Italians are on holidays or still in bed so it is relatively free of obstacles. Okay, I know it is sad to think about other people as obstacles, but many Italians on the bike path are out for a leisurely, social experience, while I am there for exercise. Riding a bicycle on Sunday afternoons provides me with many, many opportunities to practice patience and self-restraint!

This morning when I came to the famous bridge it was again barricaded (incompetently, however, so it was easy to by-pass). Some genius had decided to set fire to the grass underneath the bridge, which then spread to the wooden planks covering it. Yeah, wood is flammable Einstein! Based on past experience, I'd guess it will take only ten years to get the ruined planks replaced.

At this point, you are probably asking yourself, "Why doesn't the big whiner just go the other direction on the Tiber River bike path?" Well, I tried that two weeks ago, but that path is blocked by the booths for a summer festival. There are two banks for every river; why do they have to set up the booths on the side that has the bike path when the other side of the river equally suitable? Sigh.

A trip down memory lane

2011-08-22T16:38:00.001+01:00

Moving not only provides an opportunity to throw out a lot of junk, but also to discover old treasures. Last week I rescued from the attic the first computer used in the monastery, which I had stored up there over 11 years ago. I was lucky to find it since much of that section of the attic had already been cleared out.

Of course, I should not be attached to earthly things; instead I should be storing up treasures in heaven. Yadda yadda yadda. Despite that, I was really happy to see the old girl. Some forward-thinking brother convinced the authorities in 1984 or 1985 that they should have a computer so they bought an IBM PC 5150 with 640K RAM and a whopping 20MB hard disk. They then invited an American brother to install some useful programs on it—a database program called TIM and the Leading Edge word processing program. After installing the programs, said American brother returned to America. Only one of the brothers in Rome knew how to operate it so it sat idle most of the time. In the hope of getting something useful from their investment, the authorities went searching for a brother who knew something about computers and was willing to live in Rome, and they found me. So this computer, you see, is responsible for getting me out of a teaching job that I hated, for showing me the world outside the U.S., for my learning a second language, for meeting some of my best friends, for discovering good Italian food and even, in a round-about way, for the existence of this blog.

(As an aside, our Order was late to the game; in the early 80's, some larger, more organized Orders spent mega-bucks on DEC mini-computers—systems that were obsolete within a few years. Sometimes it pays to be slow.)

At the time, the higher-ups viewed the computer as an exotic piece of equipment that should be used only for VERY SPECIAL, EXTREMELY IMPORTANT MATTERS OF THE ORDER. I'm not sure what they had in mind; top secret missives to the Holy Father, maybe. I saw it as an expensive tool that was going to waste so I began to use it for ordinary tasks, such as writing letters. A few brothers accused me of being wasteful because I {gasp} used the computer almost daily. Needless to say, there was quite a bit of resistance to my suggestion that computers were meant to substitute typewriters, not complement them. Eventually, however, that is what happened. Our proto-computer was relegated to ever more menial tasks, in the end serving to store the card catalog for our small library.

After carefully bringing it from the attic to my room, I dusted it off, blew the cobwebs off its motherboard, hooked up the monitor and keyboard, then flipped its switch. Lights blinked and the hard disk whirred as it (I imagine) wondered where it was and what year it was. A minute or two later I was greeted with the old, familiar beep and "C:>". Welcome back, old friend!

Sic Transit Curia, Monday

2011-08-18T12:00:00.001+01:00

Our headquarters in Rome (called a "General Curia" in the arcane terminology of the R.C. Church) was built around 1900 and last remodeled around 1950. Even to us, who tend to classify the events of 1759 as "recent history", the time seemed ripe to remodel the old monastery. Much has changed in the last 60 years. Take the whole concept of personal hygiene, for instance. Gone are the days (thank God!) when a weekly bath was deemed sufficient. Usually, said bath was taken on Saturday afternoon, so as to be "clean and fresh" for Sunday's Masses. There were still one or two brothers clinging to this tradition when I started working here in 1988, and believe me, you did not want to be within 50 meters of those guys on a Friday, especially in the summer. So back then it was sufficient to have two or three showers in each wing of the building. With the increased level of hygiene, however, one sometimes arrives to find all the showers occupied.

It was also once the case that no one except a brother or perhaps the occasional visiting prelate would get beyond the ground floor of the monastery. Given the complete privacy, it made sense to intersperse offices with bedrooms on the first and second floors. That way, one could go right from his riposo to his work. Today, however, it has become necessary and common to invite consultants, technicians and other experts to our offices. This has occasionally led to an awkward moment, as an outsider encountered a towel-clad brother on his way to the shower.

We decided, therefore, to re-organize and modernize our building—new wiring, new plumbing, new climate control and energy efficiency. Given the scope of the work, we must completely vacate the building for around two and a half years. We have already moved out tons of books and paper—some to our new, temporary location, and some to the recycling center. We have probably supplied toilet paper to all of Italy for the next five years! The immanence of the move really hit me when they packed up the portraits of our former general ministers and carted them off to storage. Ghosts of the portraits are still clinging tightly to the wall outside my room. Come to think of it, that is probably a metaphor for my own reluctance to leave a place that has been the background for so many pieces of who I am.

Milestones

2011-07-28T18:47:00.000+01:00

On April 1 of this year, Soliloquy turned five years old. Sometime around the end of June or early July, it passed 10,000 visits. That works out to an average of 2000 visits a year, which isn't even a blip on Google's radar. Surprisingly, people aren't interested in reading the same posts over and over for months at a time. Maybe I should try a new strategy.

A ringing endorsement

2011-07-28T18:38:00.000+01:00

Brother Bernard is a member of a jazz band that performs an annual concert in a local prison, among other gigs. Asked for his reaction to this year's concert, one inmate remarked, "It is two hours out of the prison."

Take that, Chick Corea!

Dreadfully sari

2011-05-30T17:02:00.000+01:00

A few years ago, I told a friend that I would be spending a few weeks in India visiting our brothers there. She asked me to buy some silk cloth that she could make into a dress. As my visit was nearing its end, I dutifully asked one of the brothers to take me to a shop that sold saris. I picked out two saris that looked like good dress material.

Since then every time I visit India the brothers insist on taking me to buy saris. I tried explaining that I really do not need any more saris, but they apparently think that I am merely being polite. Earlier this month during another visit, they insisted on buying not one, but two saris for me. A week later, I visited our brothers in another region of India, and they wanted to buy even more saris for me. Fortunately, I persuaded them to buy me a kurta instead.

If I knew how to sew I suppose I could use the saris to make some lovely silk boxers for myself. Can anyone suggest some other creative uses for two silk saris?

Another disappointing judgement day

2011-05-22T02:22:00.000+01:00

As I write this, it is three hours after the end of the world. Maybe Reverend Camping forgot to carry the one.

I saw in the newspaper this morning that the mayor of New York generously offered to cancel alternate side parking next week if the world ended today.

Bicycling in Rome

2011-01-16T22:02:00.000+01:00

When you think of bicycle-friendly cities, you probably don't think of Rome—for good reason, it turns out. The city is, in fact, quite bicycle-inimical. To be fair, it isn't easy to adapt the streets of a two thousand-year-old city to accommodate automobiles, buses, trams and, on top of all that, leave a little room for bicycles. When I returned to Rome in 2006, I was actually surprised to discover just how far the city had come in trying to accommodate the needs/desires of bicyclists. Thanks to continuous pressure from an active group of bicycle enthusiasts, more progress is being made every year.

Here for your viewing pleasure is my Roman bicycle travelogue.

Starting from the monastery, I need to ride only a short distance on city streets to reach the entrance to Villa Borghese, one of Rome's largest parks. Once inside the park, I no longer have to worry about traffic. Instead, I have to worry about baby strollers, roller bladers, other bicyclists and entire Italian families strolling arm-in-arm eight abreast at about 2 km per year. Crossing to the other side of the park, I exit near Rome's modern art museum and the Villa Giulia. Here begins a bicycle path that leads to the Tiber River. The good news is that the bicycle path is clearly marked on the sidewalk. The bad news is that pedestrians still block it, and you have to cross several very busy streets before arriving at the Tiber. I cross over Ponte Risorgimento and turn right on the other side. About one hundred meters along this path I have a choice of two paths to take. I can keep following the Tiber going north until the area called Acqua Acetosa. Actually, the bike path should continue farther, but the bridge over a ravine has been inexplicably closed for the past four years. The other choice is to follow the Tiber River south by descending a ramp on the right.

The ramp takes you down from the street level to the river level. For the first few hundred meters, there is a concrete path; not terribly smooth, but passable. Until recently, the concrete eventually gave way to san pietrini, the small cobblestones favored by Romans for paving their streets and sidewalks. If I had written this post a year ago, I would have advised any male who wished eventually to father a child to avoid this path. I rode on it once in 2006; it was so rough that it took me two days to stop shaking.

In late 2010, the city of Rome finally paved over part of the cobblestones to create a bike path. It is now quite pleasant. I'm not sure how long the path will last, however, because the layer of asphalt is so thin that you can already see the outline of the underlying cobblestones. Although there is now a smooth, clearly marked path along this part of the Tiber, it is not perfect. There are makeshift barricades like the one in this photo blocking the path in various locations. It isn't always clear why the barricade is there; sometimes it is because the wall above the bike path is unstable.

The path continues along the Tiber for several kilometers. There are now only two small sections that are not paved. The one shown in this photo is near the Isola Tiburtina. The cobblestones are only a minor nuisance; the bigger problem is that this area is often very crowded, especially in the summer. This is one of the spots where people board the boats that cruise up and down the Tiber during the summer months. It also seems to be a favorite hangout of young people.

Continuing along another kilometer or two, the path comes to an end at a set of stairs near Rome's old gasometer. Actually, the path continues at the top of the stairs; but we won't go there today. It takes me approximately 30 minutes to reach this point so it is a good place to turn around and head home. The makeshift stairs have received a lot of criticism from the bicycling community. They were installed so that the path could be blocked while a new bridge is built over the Tiber. The bridge will allow the bike path to cross over the river and continue south. So the ends are good, but many wonder why the city could not have installed a temporary ramp instead of stairs. Do they not realize that bicycles and stairs do not mix well?

I hope you enjoyed the tour.

What's in a name?

2011-01-14T12:05:00.001+01:00

There is a marriage preparation course, apparently widely-used among American Catholic marriage ministers, called FOCCUS. Digging into the website, I found that the name is an acronym for "Facilitate Open, Caring Communication, Understanding and Study." Fair enough, but could the program's creators really have been so irony-challenged?

Lines are open for comments.

You have to laugh to keep from crying

2011-01-13T16:06:00.000+01:00

Several journalists pointed out that the gun used in the attempted murder of Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords was legally purchased. Commenting on one of these articles, alert reader MyBigToe bristled at the insinuation that easy access to guns might have had some role to play in this tragedy. He wrote, "To all those who say that this gun was legally purchased, you are wrong. The shooter lied on the application form where it asked if he had ever used illegal drugs."

Clearly, you see, the problem is not easy access to guns, but the dishonesty of the criminally insane. While others may wring their hands, I intend to do something about this. Today, I announce to you the formation of: People for Honesty by the Lowlife, Evil Gun-Minded. Please join P.H.L.E.G.M. in putting an end to gun violence by spreading this message to all the criminals and madmen among your friends and acquaintances:

Please be more honest when completing the application form for the purchase of handguns, assault rifles, bazookas, and other sporting goods. This will lead to a safer society, which I know is a concern that all of us share. Thank you for your cooperation.

Like a rolling stone

2010-12-22T06:01:00.000+01:00

I was reprimanded by immigration officers both when leaving Australia and when entering the U.S. because they could not find an empty spot in my passport for their stamp. In August of 2007 I had an additional twenty-four pages added to the existing twenty-four pages of my passport, but those are all full now. Luckily there is a passport agency near where I currently find myself so I decided to renew my passport while I am here.

The U.S. government would really prefer that you renewed your passport by mail. When I called to make an appointment at the passport agency, I was reminded several times by the friendly digital voice that I had to show proof that I was traveling within two weeks in order to qualify to go in person to the passport office. Then again, the expected wait to receive a passport through the mail was three weeks. What are you supposed to do if you are traveling later than two weeks from now, but sooner than three weeks? Well, if you are like me, you just wait until you are within the two-week deadline before calling for an appointment. Besides, three weeks during the crush of Christmas mail, seriously? It takes longer than that for my Christmas cards to arrive.

I went to the passport office with some trepidation. It seems that no matter how closely I adhere to the instructions I was given, government workers will always find some small reason to either admonish me, deny me or both. [I want to say here that I know some lovely people who have government jobs, and I know that they are always quite reasonable. Unfortunately, they don't work at the agencies I need to deal with.] Should I have filled out a form before going? Are my photos the right size? Are they too dark? Too light? Will he/she say that since I reside overseas I must get my passport there? Aaaggghhh!

In reality, however, all the agents I dealt with were perfectly nice. The first agent even suggested that I might want to request the larger, 52-page passport since I travel so much. The second agent allowed me to retrieve the new passport in one day rather than the usual two because I had planned to leave in two days to visit my parents. Although the wait was long, it was not unreasonable. So now I am the proud owner of a brand new passport. One with the little chip in it, which will supposedly shave several seconds off the time it takes to get through immigration (after standing in line for an hour).

United Condoms of Benedetton

2010-11-26T09:25:00.001+01:00

When this so-called Pope announced that using a condom in certain, very limited situations might be the moral thing to do, I knew that something was amiss. Obviously, the enemies of the Church have kidnapped the real Benedict XVI and have replaced him with a cleverly-disguised impostor. WHERE ARE YOU KEEPING HIM, YOU FIENDS!

In light of this development, I have raised the BroLo faith-terror alert level to "Double layer aluminum hat" (or, for people with funny accents, "Double layer aluminium hat").

Remember, you heard it here first.

Giving thanks

2010-11-25T15:47:00.001+01:00

Today is Thanksgiving Day in the U.S., which would be great if not for the fact that I am in Italy. Still, I was able to have a celebration of sorts with roast turkey, cranberry sauce, and sweet potatoes. Unfortunately, there was no pumpkin pie.

I think Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, precisely because it is the least commercialized—not for lack of trying, mind you. Thankfully (there's that word again), Americans, the epidomy of consumerism, have resisted attempts to commercialize Thanksgiving. Today is about family and being thankful for the little things we usually take for granted.

Someone sent me a link to an article in the New York Times about Thanksgiving. It wasn't up to the paper's usual editorial standards, probably because it was dealing with something positive, which is quite uncommon for the NYT. To save you the trouble of reading the whole thing, let me paraphrase the best take-away line from the article: "Recent scientific studies have shown that optimists live longer than pessimists; which proves that the pessimists are correct."

The problem with euphemisms

2010-11-17T12:48:00.003+01:00

The scene: It is 1961. An Irish brother is giving a retreat to a group of nuns. Having heard on the radio about the attack on Irish UN troops in the Congo, he thought he should share this information with the retreatants.

Brother: Some of our soldiers in the Congo were caught by the Balubas last night.

Sister: Oh my. That must really hurt!

Obama! A Modern U.S. President (musical spoof)

2010-10-25T20:43:00.000+01:00

Sunday with the Waffles

2010-10-25T19:44:00.000+01:00

I spent yesterday afternoon and evening with Mr and Mrs Belgian Waffle and family. It was Belgian Waffle who convinced me to start a blog, and she is the only person who has ever chided me for not blogging often enough. So it is with great (and somewhat malicious) pride that I am blogging about this before she is. Of course, it is entirely possible that she allowed me to win—she probably had her post written within hours of my departure.

I have known Belgian Waffle for almost twenty years, and I met Mr Waffle once before. This was my first time, however, meeting Princess, Michael and Daniel. Princess is every bit as charming in real life as she is in the virtual world of the blogosphere. Michael and Daniel are, well, very real boys. Perhaps because I was so shy when I was growing up, I was struck by how readily they invited me to join in their game of "Elephants on Parade" (which I lost). They were delightful. Loud, yes. But delightful all the same. Mr and Mrs Waffle were excessively apologetic for them. I responded that being around children only further confirmed my choice of vocation, which is partially true. But if I were to have children, I would like them to be like Princess, Michael and Daniel.

The weather gods smiled upon us, giving us a gorgeous, sunny day to walk through Phoenix Park and to watch the deer. Then Waffle showed off her multitasking skills as she cooked dinner, held a conversation with me and helped Mr Waffle entertain the children—and did an admirable job at all three. Altogether, it was a fantastic day.

Family politics

2010-08-30T21:04:00.000+01:00

Politically speaking, I am the black sheep of the family—a half-hearted Democrat in a sea of dyed-red-in-the-wool Republicans. I am sorry to say that my own, dear mother is among the most extreme of the group. She's an intelligent woman, yet she has allowed herself to be convinced that President Obama is Muslim and, worse yet, she too would like him to produce his birth certificate. Whenever I visit them, as I am this week, there is an unspoken agreement to avoid talking about politics, although she occasionally can't help herself. "What do you think about those terrorists building a mosque in New York," she'll ask. At least there is no doubt about where she stands on the issue. Of course, I knew where she stood on the issue before she asked the question because I know from whom she gets her information. Rush Limbaugh, Fox News and Glenn Beck have become my parent's daily bread.

At the moment, they are especially taken by Glenn Beck, which isn't surprising given that he has wrapped himself in a cloak of religiosity. They were all set to watch his Washington rally in its entirety on Saturday, but couldn't find the correct channel. They knew better than to ask my help. The "Restoring Honor" rally was held on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial on the anniversary of Martin Luther King's "I have a dream" speech. Just a coincidence, said Glenn Beck. An attempt to subvert the legacy of the civil rights movement, said his detractors.

At the health club this morning, talk of the rally was all the rage. I overheard a comment (thankfully, not from my mother) that pretty well says it all: "We got those people out of Africa; what more do they want?!"

Really, really ahead of his time

2010-08-26T19:14:00.002+01:00

The most popular of the writings of Saint Francis of Assisi (ca. 1881 - 1226) is almost certainly the "Peace Prayer of St Francis". The only problem is that he never actually wrote it. The prayer, whose author is unknown, was printed on the back of a holy card bearing the image of St Francis, which led to its being attributed to the saint from Assisi.

What should be the most popular writing of St Francis is his "Canticle of the Creatures," a beautiful poem in which he calls all of creation his brother and sister, and asks them to praise their Creator. The poem inspired the title of Zefferelli's film "Brother Sun, Sister Moon", and for the popular hymn, "All Creatures of Our God and King". One of our monasteries used the poem in a recent fundraising letter, which elicited a rather strong response from one of its donors, which can be paraphrased as follows: "How dare you print this New Age crap. I will never donate to you again!"

Apropos of nothing

2010-08-26T03:39:00.000+01:00

Brother Maltus just returned from his parents' 60th wedding anniversary. He told us it was a nice, simple ceremony. One of the other brothers then began to reminisce about this couple's 25th wedding anniversary. Both husband and wife were close to fifty years old at the time and had brought three children into the world. For his sermon at that Mass, the priest choose the very appropriate theme, "The Evils of Birth Control."

Legenda fratrum, pars XXII

2010-06-19T00:59:00.000+01:00

Okay, this time you must be acquainted with old American advertisements to fully appreciate this story.

From the founding of our Order in the 1500's until 1968, every member was required to wear a beard, which were supposed to indicate that we were "manly, natural and austere". By the 1940's, however, many American brothers were anxious to send their beard down the drain. When an American brother from Milwaukee was elected as head of the Order in 1946, many American brothers thought he would do away with the requirement. Unfortunately for them, he did not abolish the rule. In fact, not only did he keep his beard for his entire term of office, he actually let it grow longer and bushier, or shall we say, more "natural".

Piqued by this development—or lack thereof—, an American brother dubbed it, "the beard that made Milwaukee famous".

It's a mystery alright

2010-06-14T21:46:00.002+01:00

Those of you who follow churchy news may know that some months ago the Vatican announced it would be conducting a "visitation" of all the women's religious congregations in the United States. There were mixed reactions to the announcement, to say the least. At one end of the spectrum are congregations that feel that it is long overdue. At the other end are those that see the visitation as intrusive, heavy-handed and unwarranted. Much ink has been spilled over the issue, and it has, predictably, divided American Catholics along ideological lines. Again.

Of everything said and written, I think the cleverest thing I've heard so far came from a religious sister I was introduced to a few days ago. In light of the displeasure this has caused among many of the congregations, she suggested that "The Visitation" should be switched from being a Joyful Mystery to being a Sorrowful Mystery of the Rosary.

Okay, you have to be a Catholic of a certain age and caliber in order to understand it.

There goes our image

2010-06-09T23:40:00.000+01:00

In many of our monasteries, it is a custom to have a daily reading of the Necrology—a short biography of all the brothers of the province who died on that day. Today's Necrology in the monastery I am currently visiting recalled a brother whose hobby was gardening. He was the very picture of a pious, nature-loving brother, except for one thing. He hated sparrows. Each morning, he would walk meditatively around the garden while praying his rosary. And in his other hand there would be a stone to throw at some unsuspecting winged warbler.
Ave Maria, plena gratia... BAM!

Start spreadin' the news

2010-05-23T00:30:00.000+01:00

I've been a typical tourist in the Big Apple for the past few days. A friend of mine is here for the first time so I took her to the Empire State Building, Times Square, the UN, the Statue of Liberty, etc., etc. he spent all of Saturday shopping with another friend (who is now also my friend now for having spared me that task!) so I used the opportunity to visit the Frick Collection. I had heard enthusiastic descriptions of it from two of my Italian friends—it is pretty rare to hear Italians praising an American art museum. Their enthusiasm, however, was well-deserved. The collection has some magnificent pieces from the thirteenth to the nineteenth century, and I was astonished to see the originals of several very famous paintings—Hans Holbein's portraits of Thomas More and Thomas Cromwell, and El Greco's "St Jerome", to name a few. At some point during my visit, the true significance of the collection struck me: this wasn't like a national gallery. At one time, this collection belonged to a single person!

The collection is well worth seeing the next time you are in New York. The building housing the collection is interesting in itself, having been the home of the Frick family. It is a fine example of a wealthy family home in the guilded age. The museum is located right next to Central Park, which is an added bonus. Go!

Air Frere

2010-05-13T01:07:00.000+01:00

By pure coincidence, I have reached a milestone, of sorts, today. Upon landing in Burbank today, I have flown 477,721 miles (768,817 km) since being elected to my present position in the Order. That is 10 miles (or 17 km) more than the distance from the earth to the moon and back (using the average distance between the earth and the moon).

How do I know this? Because I keep a record of all my flights, which you can check for yourself here. Want more fun facts? Of course you do! I have:

flown enough miles to circle the earth over 19 times
flown .005 of the distance to the sun
spent over 1000 hours inside planes
been in 31 countries
spent time in 103 different airports
flown on 51 different kinds of aircraft

If nothing else, I can say that I have gathered no moss in the last three and a half years.

Another candle on the cake

2010-05-12T19:54:00.001+01:00

Today is my birthday. I arrived into this world fifty-three years ago. How time flies! Soon, I will reach maturity, I am told. To celebrate this momentous occasion, I flew from Tucson to Phoenix this morning. Currently, I am sitting in the Phoenix airport awaiting my onward flight to Burbank, California. Oh, the glamour! The airport is not the most conducive place in the world for taking stock of one's life, but it will have to do.

I was never one for setting goals for myself so there isn't any benchmark against which I can measure myself. By the most common measures of success—money, possessions, a position of authority or influence, a happy family—I am a dismal failure. I have never been married, have no children and no possessions. Within the religious order to which I belong I have reached a position that some might consider influential, but it is vicarious influence. I have no real authority of my own. According to the current laws of the Church, the fact that I am not a priest means that I cannot go any higher within the structure the Order. In other words, I have peaked. Scary.

I suppose that "success" for a religious brother must be measured in the number of lives he has touched, the number of people he has helped and in the holiness of his life. If anyone figures out how to measure those things, let me know. On the holiness score, all I can say is: Give me a little more time, Lord!

A day in the life – Pranzo

2010-04-11T01:24:00.001+01:00

The main meal of the day, pranzo, is served at 1:00. In a nod to the many Asian and African brothers in the monastery, white rice is available every day, but otherwise the menu is strictly Italian. There is always a first course of pasta, rice or, on rare occasions, polenta. The American brothers, whose only experience of Italian food is spaghetti with meatballs in tomato sauce, are usually awestruck at the variety of pasta dishes we are served. The second course is equally varied. At least two days a week we have fish and the other days there is some kind of meat. There are usually potatoes, several kinds of vegetables, including lots of greens, and salads. It amazes me how many kinds of food two people can put out each day.

At exactly 1:00, we say grace. Before the sound of the “Amen” has completely died out, there is a mad rush to the serving tables. First in line is always Brother Lupinus. Why is he always first? Because it has always been that way. Now stop asking silly questions. Except for the rare occasion when a number of unexpected guests show up, there is always enough food for everyone so the reason for the mad rush is a bit a mystery to me.

It wouldn’t be an Italian meal without wine. Both red and white varieties are available. Every few months, a truck pulls into our courtyard, extends a hose into our cantina and refills the 500 liter wine tanks. This made a huge impression on me the first time I saw it—who knew that wine could be delivered in large tank trucks?!

After the midday and evening meals, all the brothers help with the cleanup. Some clear the serving tables and put away the leftovers. Others clear the plates from the tables, and wash and dry them. Another crew clears the glasses and utensils, which are washed in their own dishwasher. Brother Lupinus has the job of hand-washing the serving dishes so he keeps a pair of rubber gloves in a corner of the refectory for this purpose. After the closing prayer, he dashes over to get his gloves, then runs to the kitchen while putting on his gloves. Seeing him coming toward you while snapping on a pair of rubber gloves makes it look like he is preparing to uh….. Well, as one of the brothers once said to me, “I wouldn’t bend over just now if I were you!”

With the cleanup done, the brothers head over to the recreation room for coffee. These days, the coffee is provided by four espresso machines, at least one of which is out of order on any given day. There have been days when there was only one functioning machine. Talk about surly brothers…. After coffee, it is time for Italy’s greatest contribution to the humanity, the siesta.

Brother Rufinus is in the confessional…

2010-04-07T16:15:00.001+01:00

Nun: … and I farted once.

Bro Rufinus: That’s not a sin, sister.

Nun: But I was in the church at the time.

Bro Rufinus: Ah, I see. Did it extinguish the sanctuary candle?

Nun: Of course not, Father.

Bro Rufinus: Then it’s not a sin.

A day in the life - breakfast

2010-01-30T03:30:00.001+01:00

You’ve seen those cookie jars shaped like fat monks? Well, they’re not far from the truth. We generally eat pretty well in the monastery. Up until a few years ago, our own brothers did the cooking. As the number of lay brothers dwindled in Italy, they started bringing them in from other parts of the world and teaching them how to cook Italian food. Of course, if a monastery in another part of the world had a really good cook, they kept him for themselves and sent us a second-stringer. It was not uncommon to get brothers who had no interest in cooking. Not unsurprisingly, their inner frustrations were outwardly manifested in the quality of the food. Eventually, the leaders of our monastery gave up trying to convince others to send us a good cook and hired someone to prepare our meals. He and his staff are excellent, and the brothers could not happier.

Breakfast is eaten after mass each morning. It is simple fare, consisting of coffee or tea, warm milk, fresh bread (delivered every morning right from the bakery), butter, jam, various cheeses, fruit, yoghurt and cereal. Actually, the cereal was a recent introduction, requested by the Anglo-Saxon brothers and begrudgingly allowed by the Italians. Initially, two kinds were available: Corn Flakes and All Bran, which the Italians called “stecchini” or “little sticks”. Lately, the Corn Flakes have been dropped in favor of Special K (cf fat, monkish cookie jars), and granola has also become available. Coffee is drunk in the traditional way—in a bowl with two-thirds hot milk and one third coffee. It is an almost sinfully sensual pleasure to wrap your hands around a warm bowl on a cold winter morning and smell the aroma of dark roasted Arabica!

In the past, breakfast for many of the Italians would be bite-size chunks of bread thrown into the bowl with the milk and coffee, eaten while standing up. As near as I can tell, the act of standing while eating announced, “This is not really a meal,” thus allowing the brother an illusion of austerity. It wasn’t just the Italians, however, who made breakfast into a penitential act. I heard stories of an American brother who made breakfast every day as follows: he melted a little butter in a large, cast iron skillet, then added some leftover meat or fish from the night before, plus corn flakes, coffee and milk. Finally, he would break an egg or two into the mix, stir it well over medium heat, then eat. Hearty? Yes. Revolting? You betcha! Frankly, I’ll stick to a nice slice of oily, salty focaccia with some Bel Paese or Philadelphia Cream Cheese. The penance will come later in the form of high blood pressure and heart disease.

Legenda Fratrum, Pars XXI

2010-01-22T15:22:00.000+01:00

A brother from an American monastery was visiting England. He was not particularly impressed, and didn't mind sharing his opinion.

American brother: I think London must be the asshole of the world.

English brother: I take it you're just passing through?

Merry Christmas to all

2009-12-25T03:12:00.000+01:00

Legenda Fratrum, pars XX

2009-11-30T21:10:00.001+01:00

An elderly brother was visiting from another monastery in order to attend a funeral....

Solicitous brother: How are you getting back to your monastery, brother?

Elderly brother: The undertaker is going to drive me there.

Solicitous brother: Make sure you sit up and occasionally say something!

Truth in advertising

2009-11-15T10:14:00.000+01:00

Sign seen along a highway in India:

ROAD RUNS FAMILY RESTAURANT

Breakfast conversation

2009-10-31T16:28:00.000+01:00

Aussie brother: Do you have kumquats in England?

English brother: I'm sorry, I don't like that kind of talk!

Il Postino

2009-09-21T07:38:00.002+01:00

For four days last week we received no mail, an unprecedented event for us. When pressed for a reason, the postman explained that it was due to the improvements they were making to the Italian postal system.

We should have known.

A Prague Spring

2009-06-19T11:35:00.006+01:00

After Madrid, it was 3 days in Prague. As in Madrid and Venice, I was there for a meeting, but there was also a little time for sightseeing. Don't be jealous just because I have the best job in the world.

One evening, our hosts arranged a boat trip on the Vltava River for the meeting's participants. A guide pointed out various important sites along the banks of the river, including the Rudolfinum, one of the main concert halls in Prague. Adorning the roof of the building are statues of various composers and musicians. Our guide pointed out that the building was used as a command post by the German army during World War II. The German commander was upset, however, to learn that one of the building's statues was of the composer Felix Mendelssohn. He ordered his soldiers to remove the statue of "the Jew". The unfortunate soldiers had no idea what Mendelssohn looked like so they searched for the statue with the largest nose, and ended up removing the statue of ... Richard Wagner!

After touring the river, we transferred onto a larger boat, where we were served dinner. The food was wonderful, as was the atmosphere. It was a memorable occasion in one of the most beautiful cities of the world. If you have not seen Prague, you must go! I will also put in a plug for "Venice of Prague," the company responsible for the boat trips, which I do without shame because they were most generous and hospitable with us. I highly recommend them.

Madrid

2009-06-11T14:23:00.001+01:00

After Venice, I went to Spain for a similar three-day meeting. The meeting was held in Alcalá, not far from Madrid. After the meeting, I spent the night in one of our monasteries in Madrid. Not having been there before, I wasn't sure what to expect. It turned out to be a very nice place—simple, but clean and comfortable. I snapped the accompanying photograph just outside the door of the monastery. The white building seen behind the trees in the background is the Prado Museum. You are probably wondering the same thing I did: "How did the Prado get such a prized location next to our monastery?"

Few places in the world...

2009-06-03T21:04:00.000+01:00

... have street signs that are wider than the street itself!

Venice

2009-06-02T20:33:00.002+01:00

I'm in Venice for a meeting. We took the afternoon off to visit a few of the (religious) sites.

Legenda Fratrum, Pars XIX

2009-05-26T01:34:00.003+01:00

Sometimes Brother Amadeus' mouth outran his brain, leading to statements such as:

"The Virgin Queen was about as much a virgin as you or I!" (spoken during a retreat he gave to a group of nuns).

and

"We should fill our holes with soap." (try swapping a few letters).

and

"Let us pray for the poor souls condemned unjustly to Purgatory."

A day in the life - Mass

2009-05-04T21:45:00.003+01:00

Among the brothers in our monastery is one I will call Brother Lunaticus. Among his other accomplishments, he is able to ~~sleep~~ meditate while standing. His customary prayer posture, however, is half-sitting, half-kneeling, elbows on the pew and chin resting on his arms. Occasionally, I have looked up from my prayer book to find him staring at me. It’s unnerving to say the least. I feel certain he will be the headline on the evening news some day: “He was always so quiet. He never bothered anyone. I never imagined he would be capable of mass murder!” [Note to self: update last will and testament.]

There is a door in the chapel that opens to the street, and this is unlocked each morning so people from the outside can attend our mass. We don't attract many, but those who do come are a colorful lot. One lady who occasionally joins us ... well, let's just say her ladder doesn't quite reach her belfry. She fancies herself the foundress of a new religious order, but unfortunately has not found anyone to join her yet. She is still trying to find the right look for her religious habit, and has come wearing smocks of varying styles and colors. She also has the habit of farting quite loudly and frequently—I'm not certain whether that is part of her Order's charism or merely a personal devotion.

For a short time, a frequent attendee was a gentleman dressed rather shabbily, as if he were homeless. He appeared to be quite unfamiliar with the rituals of the mass—when to sit, stand and kneel, how to make the sign of the cross, etc. Still, what the heck, converts are always welcome. We began to doubt the sincerity of his conversion, however, when we noticed that he always left mass right after our day's supply of fresh bread was delivered at the chapel door, and that several pieces of bread were missing from the sack on the days that he attended.

A day in the life - Morning prayers

2009-04-19T10:36:00.003+01:00

At exactly 6:30, a bell in chapel rings to signal that it is time for prayers to begin. Until a few years ago, the signal was provided by an old, wind-up chiming clock that somehow managed to be always either fast or slow. A few years ago, however, the old, charming clock was retired and replaced by an electric clock that regularly synchronizes itself with an atomic clock somewhere in the world. I’m not kidding! No more excusing my late arrival by claiming that the clock is fast. Little by little, all our excuses are being eliminated.

You may have seen movies or heard a CD of monks chanting their prayers in beautiful harmonies. Yeah, that’s not us. Most of the time, we merely say (or better, mumble) our prayers. When we do sing, well, it's just best not to talk about it. At prayer, the brothers can be divided into three groups—the downhill brothers, the uphill brothers and the neutral brothers. The downhill brothers continually pick up speed as the prayer proceeds while the uphill brothers attempt to apply the brakes. Who prevails depends on how many supporters each group can muster from among the neutral brothers. At times, the uphill group and downhill group can be separated by several words. I’m pretty sure this is not what David had in mind when he wrote the psalms.

This temporal tug-of-war lasts for about 15 minutes, until we finish the first part of our morning prayer routine. This is followed by half an hour of silent meditation. We are allowed to do our meditation wherever we think the atmosphere is most conducive. Many stay in the chapel, some walk in the courtyard or corridors and others go to their rooms. I have a suspicion that not all of those who go to their rooms are actually spending the time in meditation. Maybe it’s the fact that when they return 30 minutes later, their damp hair is neatly combed and they are no longer wearing pajamas under their habits. Until several years ago, everyone was expected to stay in the chapel for the meditation period, but the rules were eventually loosened because the snoring in the chapel was keeping some of us awake!

After the meditation period, we celebrate mass. At precisely 7:15 our atomic-synchronized Swiss clock chimes, which is a rather rude way to be awaken from one’s “meditation”. The chime causes a Pavlovian reaction among the priest-brothers, who jump up and run to the sacristy to get vested for the mass. Not being a priest myself, I can remain in chapel, but I have witnessed the action in the sacristy a few times. It looks like the backstage at a Wal-Mart fashion show. Twenty or thirty priests are trying to force their way to the closet where the albs and stoles are kept. Each grabs the necessary items and squeezes his way back to the chapel, throwing on his alb and stole along the way. They come back into the chapel willy-nilly with their albs twisted around their bodies in odd ways and with stoles hanging lopsidedly around their necks. Such grace! Such solemnity! I cry.

(to be continued)

A day in the life - Rising

2009-04-09T20:12:00.003+01:00

My day in the monastery, whenever I am there, typically begins at 5:45 a.m. with a shower and associated ablutions so I can arrive for prayers at 6:30, fresh as a bedewed rose. Okay, I am lying about the rose thing. I am about as fresh as that leaf of lettuce that fell behind your kitchen counter last week. I am not a morning person, and while rising before dawn has become easier with the passing of the years, it still feels unnatural. Surely God meant the sun to be our alarm clock, no? Community prayers are an important part of the day, however, and skipping them would scandalize some of the younger brothers so guilt trumps my desire to stay in my celibate bed each morning.

Judging by the looks of many of the other brothers, I am not the only one who is not a morning person. A few of them tumble into chapel with seconds to spare, complete with pillow-tousled hair and sleep in their eyes. Occasionally, one can spy pajamas under a brother’s habit. On the other hand, there are those brothers who have been in chapel since before 6:00—bright-eyed, perfectly groomed, in attitudes of smug prayerfulness. Oh, how I hate them!

The reader might be asking himself or herself why, if so many brothers dislike this early hour, we don’t move prayers to a later hour. Actually, when I first moved to this monastery in 1988, prayers started at 6:15. After battling for almost 20 years, we normal brothers finally won a 15 minute concession from the "Aurorists". Somehow, whenever the topic came up in a house chapter, the early risers managed to grab the high moral ground and to convince the majority that rising later than 6:00 will insure one’s eternal damnation. Frankly, however, I am suspicious of these people. The Psalmist wisely said, “God gives to his beloved while they slumber.” I ask myself, why will the consciences of these brothers not allow them to sleep to a normal hour?

(To be continued)

Does this qualify for the Mile High Club?

2009-04-05T16:27:00.001+01:00

Me: Flying from Frankfurt to San Francisco, we were so far north that the sun went below the horizon. Somewhere over Canada, we witnessed the sun rise again. So I had two sunrises and two sunsets in one day.

Confrere: On one of my flights last December, I had two Immaculate Conceptions.

Merry Christmas

2008-12-25T18:46:00.003+01:00

Merry Christmas to all.

I recently returned from accompanying my boss on a 23-day whirlwind visit to our brothers in the Asia-Pacific region: Australia, East Timor, Papua New Guinea, New Zealand and Guam. By my calculations, we accumulated over 37,000 miles (almost 60,000 km) of air travel. I'm exhausted.

Still, I should not complain. I like seeing new areas of the world, and I was able to add three new countries to my list—East Timor, New Zealand and Guam. Each country we visited had some small surprise in store for us, some little discovery.

This was my third visit to Australia. In many ways, it is similar to the United States or Europe. Like them, it is a wealthy, secularized country. Unlike our jurisdictions in those continents, however, the brothers in Australia are enjoying a small boom in vocations. For the past several years, they have averaged three new recruits each year, which does not seem like much, but for a province with a total size of about 35 brothers it is very good. It may be the only province in the developed world that is actually growing. No one can quite explain their success so it isn't clear whether it can be exported to other provinces.

To get from Sydney, Australia, to Dili, East Timor, we had to fly to Darwin and spend the night there. Darwin is an interesting place—Australia's frontier town. Not long ago, someone showed me a scrapbook with articles and photographs of Darwin in the aftermath of Cyclone Tracy in 1974. The people in those pictures reminded me of a 60's or 70's commune, which is perhaps unsurprising since it was the 1970's. In some ways, however, the place still retains a bit of an anti-establishment, counter-cultural feel to it.

We spent all of 24 hours in East Timor, but what do you expect for just three brothers? This is one of our Order's newest missions, having begun only in 2002. There is construction going on all around the capital city of Dili, but almost all the new buildings are embassies, government offices or international aid agencies. The amount of international aid being poured into the country is impressive, but I wondered what kind of future the country will have. Most of the locals are subsistence farmers or fishermen, but the country's soil is poor and fish stocks have been depleted by overfishing. It has the potential to become an alternative to Bali as a tourist location, but it would need massive development before that could happen

Our next stop was Papua New Guinea, a country where many of its inhabitants were literally living in the stone age until about 50 years ago, but which is trying to catch up with the rest of the world. It is not uniformly successful with its efforts. After spending the first night in Port Moresby, we were scheduled to fly to Mendi, in the Southern Highlands, the next morning at 10 o'clock. We arrived at the airport, a rather newish structure, almost two hours ahead of our flight. There was absolute chaos at the check-in counters because the computer system was down... again. Once we were checked in, we discovered that the flight actually left at noon. Flying time to Mendi was only about 90 minutes. The skies were mostly overcast, but otherwise the weather was good. During our descent into Mendi, our Canada Dash 8 had to pass through the cloud cover. It was a bit disconcerting to look out the window once we had passed through the clouds and see a tree-covered mountain at eye level not far to our right. There is not much room for pilot error when you fly to Mendi.

Next stop, New Zealand. We visited both Auckland and Wellington. Of the two, I preferred Wellington, even though it was rather chilly, even during the middle of their summer. My judgment may be a bit clouded, however, by an incident that occurred while we were there. We were taken to a seaside restaurant for lunch one day. From my seat, I could look out over the restaurant's balcony to Wellington's harbour. Two young women were having lunch at a table on the balcony, more or less directly in my line of sight. During our meal, one of the young women, who had evidently been jogging before lunch, casually removed her shirt and sports bra, then donned a sweatshirt. I must have momentarily looked like one of those cartoon characters whose eyes pop out of their heads. Merry Christmas to me! By the way, the photo at the top of this post was snapped in Wellington. It is a flower of the Pohutukawa tree, nicknamed the New Zealand Christmas Tree.

Lastly, we visited Guam. The island is so small that we drove around its entire circumference in a few hours. It's a beautiful island, very popular with Japanese tourists. The people were warm and welcoming. I thought to myself that I would like to spend a few months there, but I would probably become claustrophobic if I were there too long.

We had a 5:00 a.m. flight out of Guam to Osaka, connected to a flight to Paris, and finally landed in Rome about 28 hours after arising that morning. Here is a travellers tip for you. Avoid the Osaka-Kansai airport if you can. The signage is dreadfully inadequate, as is the English spoken by the staff (if you can actually find any staff).

Is it something I said?

2008-11-27T21:52:00.003+01:00

Last month, two of the aircraft on which I was scheduled to fly developed mechanical problems. Both times we had to deplane and reboard other aircraft. Now, the airport where I was scheduled to catch a connecting flight on Saturday has been besieged and closed. I am beginning to develop a martyr's complex. Should I say as Job did, "It's me, I'm the problem. Throw me overboard and all will return to normal"?

The airport was overrun by a group calling itself the "People's Alliance for Democracy" or PAD (Thai PAD, not to be confused with pad thai). In one news report I read, a protester said, "We had to do this to get the world's attention." Well, okay, you now have mine so let's examine the situation. You want the Prime Minister, Mr. Somchai, to step down, and to have a temporary government installed. But Mr. Somchai was elected to office by popular vote twice. Where I come from, we call that DEMOCRACY in action. You say the government is corrupt and that he won the election by buying votes with promises of projects that would improve the lives of his supporters. Boo hoo hoo! Where I come from, we call that POLITICS AS USUAL. Look, you had elections and YOU LOST. You were outwitted. I know it hurt your egos, but don't take it out on the rest of the world. In a real democracy (that is what you want, correct?), you try harder next time.

You may gain the world's attention for a short time, but you are losing its sympathies. I, for one, doubt the intentions of your leaders. If they are willing to hold thousands of innocent people hostage just to achieve their goals, their democratic credentials are rather dubious.

Having the vapors

2008-09-03T23:21:00.005+01:00

I constantly receive expressions of sympathy from my brothers for the fact that my job requires so much travel. Not being one to pass up any chance for sympathy or the material rewards that might accompany it, deserved or otherwise, I graciously accept it. The tricky part for me is to feign nonchalance to my feigned exhaustion, if you can follow that. You see, I basically like my job, and it isn't all that difficult, normally. However, I can't just come right out and say, "Oh, don't feel sorry for me. This is the greatest, easiest job in the world!" That would ruin the whole sympathy thing (especially the material rewards part). On the other hand, it would be unbecoming of someone in my position to overplay the exhaustion card. The brothers want me to be stoic in the face of difficulties, self-giving, concerned more about them than my own health or well-being so I give it to them. It's all fake, but it makes them happy so what the hell!

Anyway, one of the things I like best about my job is the chance to experience different cultures. On my recent trip to Japan, for instance, I was invited to participate in a Tea Ceremony, which I found to be beautiful and very civilized. I am willing to try most things at least once (although I will not, for instance, eat balut). So it was that when I was invited to participate in a "sweat" with a group of Native Americans of the Crow tribe while visiting Montana a few weeks ago, I eagerly agreed. I vaguely remembered one of the brothers explaining the ceremony to me years ago, but I couldn't remember the details. If that brother had survived the experience, I figured, how difficult could it be?

Pretty difficult, it turns out. First of all, you have to take off ALL your clothes. Certain tribes allow bathing suits, but for the Crows, it is stricly au naturel. Lest you get any ideas, there is no mixing of sexes for the ceremony. The men go first, and after they have finished, it is the turn of the women. Although I have no problem undressing in front of others in the locker room of a gymnasium, for instance, the thought of sitting naked among other naked men for an hour or so was slightly disturbing for me. To make matters worse, the reputation of Native American men as the best endowed in the world awakened the old fears of inadequacy in me. Thank God it wasn't a cold day!

After stripping. we crawled into the sweat lodge—a low, rounded tent. A hole in the ground near the lodge's opening was filled with red hot stones taken from the fire that had been built outside the tent a few hours earlier. Once everyone was inside, the flap was pulled down over the opening, plunging the lodge into complete, utter darkness. The only light I could see was a faint, red glow from the stones. I suspected that my lily white buttocks were glowing in the dark, but I couldn't tell for sure. Next, the leader sprinkled a pinch of powdered bearroot on the stones. I couldn't decide if the odor of the resulting smoke was pleasant or choking. Then, while saying some prayers, the leader ladled water onto the stones, creating a choking, scalding atmosphere within the tent. To "enhance" the effects of the steam, everyone was provided with leafy switches with which to lash themselves. This was meant to "open the pores". Yeah, right! Within a minute or so, the atmosphere became breathable again and I relaxed. I had survived! That's when the second ladle of water was poured on the stones. Then a third and fourth. Much gasping.

Shortly after pouring the fourth ladle, the leader opened the flap on the lodge to let in some fresh air. We were given some water to drink. After about ten minutes, the flap was closed and the process started again, this time with seven ladles of water. The flap was again opened, and everyone began to crawl out of the lodge. The steam seemed to have the same effect on me as it would on, say, carrot sticks. My limbs felt limp, and I was unsure whether they would support my weight. Outside the lodge, the eight of us flopped onto the ground like so many albino walruses. Air never felt so good.

After about fifteen minutes, my intimate communion with the four winds was interrupted by the announcement that intermission was over, and the third act was about to begin. Back in the lodge for four more ladles, a ten-minute break, then an "uncounted" number of ladles. I had been advised at the beginning of the ceremony that if the atmosphere became too unbearable I could lie prostrate with my head towards the fire. This is what I did for most of rounds three and four. Not very manly, I know, but necessary. Fortunately, it was so dark inside the lodge that most of the others never knew that I spent the last rounds kissing Mother Earth, as it were.

Afterwards, the others all congratulated me on how well I had done, although I suspect that they do that for all newbies. Never mind that, I think I'm ready for the Vision Quest!

Captain's log 2222.1

2008-08-17T07:49:00.003+01:00

If you're like me, you like to pretend you are Captain James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise while you are sitting on the porcelain throne.

Captain's log. I have ordered Sulu to lay in a course for Sewer Treatment Plant One, warp factor 2. We are to rendevous with a delegation from Turdania 3 to discuss the peace treaty....

Image my immense delight to find a toilet worthy of the great Kirk himself in my bathroom in Okinawa!

Legenda Fratrum, Pars XVIII

2008-07-30T11:52:00.003+01:00

One day, many, many years ago, Brother Prudentius was perusing the photographs sent by some brothers serving in Africa. He was struck by the local women's apparently incomplete knowledge of the consequences of the Fall of Adam and Eve. For while they were covered with fig leaves (or the local equivalent) from the waist down, their upper halves were completely lacking in foliage of any kind. One might be tempted to say that they were defoliated, but that would imply that they had once been foliated, which they probably hadn't. Instead, one would have to say that they were unfoliated, which is not a word. Anyway. Mindful of the urgency of this problem, he felt moved to do something so he undertook a campaign to collect bras for the poor women of those villages. [As I said, this was a long time ago. We would never try this in the current environment. One can just imagine the headlines: "Monk Collects Women's Underwear", "O Bra-ther Where Art Thou", "His Cup Runneth Over", etc.] Once he had collected a goodly number, he packed them up in a large box and sent them to the brothers in Africa.

Upon receiving this unexpected gift from afar, the missionary brothers were speechless. As their way of thanking the brother for his solicitude, they arranged to send him a photograph of all the village women wearing their new... bonnets!

World Middle Age Day

2008-07-24T01:19:00.004+01:00

I was in Sydney, Australia, where I participated in World Youth Day '08. Taking my cue from the event's official logo, I began calling it, "Wide Side 08." It was natural, therefore, that when we began the 10 km walk from North Sydney to Randwick Racecourse for the evening vigil and final mass, I began to sing "Take a Walk on the Wide Side."* None of the young brothers caught the reference to Lou Reed's song.

I ask you, what are they teaching young people these days?!

* Now sing along with me...
Benny came from Rome Italiay
Took a plane and went to Botany Bay
Put on an alb made of lace
Wore red shoes and shaved his face
And said, 'Hey, babe, take a walk on the WYD SYD'
He said, 'Hey, honey, take a walk on the WYD SYD'
And the acolytes chant, 'Du Du du Du du Du du du du ....'

Legenda Fratrum, Pars XVII

2008-07-03T16:52:00.002+01:00

A meeting of 50+ brothers was being held under a large tent set up behind the monastery. When the wind picked up in the afternoon, there was concern that those in the last rows would not be able to hear the speaker. Before starting the meeting, therefore, the brother moderator went to the microphone and asked, "Am I audible from the rear?"

Huh?

2008-07-03T16:26:00.006+01:00

Some of the brothers took a little trip to Naples and the Amalfi Coast last weekend. I came across this sign next to Lago Averno, outside Naples. Very good advice indeed! Thank goodness for the English translation! (Click on the photo for a larger version.)

Tribute to Brother Pilgrim - The Friend

2008-06-13T18:00:00.001+01:00

When I finished high school, the paths of Brother Pilgrim and I diverged for many years. It wasn't until about twenty years later, after I had been in the Order for about 15 years, that I began to get re-acquainted with him. I had been put in charge of one of our monasteries. He lived in a different monastery in the same city and, because he was semi-retired, he would come to our monastery twice a week to cook for us. And, oh, what a cook! But that's beside the point. It was during this time that our relationship changed from teacher-student to brother-brother. I can pinpoint the exact moment. A guy showed up at our door one day saying that he was thinking of joining our Order. He looked a little weird, but, hey, we have our share of weird-looking brothers so I invited him into the kitchenette and offered him a cup of coffee. I asked him a few questions, which he answered in long, run-on sentences. Soon, he stopped waiting for the questions and went into a non-stop monologue. Okay, that's a bit of an exaggeration—he did stop long enough to ask for another cup of coffee. I should also mention that at one point, he pulled a small, very frightened looking puppy from his inside coat pocket. You're getting the picture by now. The whole time, Brother Pilgrim had been in the kitchen, quietly working on the evening meal. About an hour into the monologue, Brother Pilgrim said to me in an urgent tone of voice, "Brother, did you forget your appointment?!" Instinctively, I stood up, looked at my watch and said, "Oh my God!". The young man apologized for making me late, and left immediately. As I was showing him out, I realized that I had no appointments that day and, even if I had, Brother Pilgrim would not have known about them!

As Brother Pilgrim got older, he began acquiring an impressive collection of illnesses: diabetes, hepatitis, heart disease and osteoporosis, among others. This latter was to cause him the most problems. He broke bones in his arms and legs at least seven times. At one point, doctors screwed a metal rod onto one of his femurs in an attempt to hold it together. It worked for a few years until his brittle bones could no longer hold the screws in place. The loose rod then became an additional source of pain and had to be surgically removed. [A sidebar: A co-worker and I went to the hospital after the surgery and asked the receptionist if he had come out yet. She called the surgical unit to see and, after she had hung up, announced, "She just came out of surgery." (His real name could be used by either gender.) I turned to my co-worker and exclaimed, "She?! I told him he should have marked his bad leg!"]

Once, after another fall and another broken leg, it was decided that he could no longer remain in the monastery where he had been staying because no one could take proper care of him. He was given the choice of going into a nursing home or choosing a different monastery. He chose to transfer to the monastery where I was living because one of the other brothers there was a friend of his. Although he had mobility problems, he had an active mind so I was happy that he was moving in with us rather than going into some depressing nursing home. It wasn't an easy move. For instance, all the bedrooms were on the second floor and we had no elevator so we would have to help him up and down the stairs. I can't say that the brothers never got annoyed with the interruptions, but somehow we knew that if the tables were turned, he would do the same for us. He also never took any of it for granted. As soon as his leg had healed, he started cooking our evening meals, and he kept that up as long as he could. Even when it became too much for him, he continued to do the meal planning and supervised the hired cooks.

Brother Pilgrim kept his love of theater throughout his life. A few times a year, I took him to see shows at the local theaters. He would try to take part of his annual vacation in New York, where friends would get tickets to Broadway shows for him. He would return a week later exhausted, but beaming. Sometimes while he worked, he would play (much too loudly) the CD's of musicals he had seen. He had an amazing knowledge of actors, directors and the workings of the theater.

Something I didn't know about him until he came to live with us was how many people he was in regular contact with. Daily, he received telephone calls from his former high school students, from nurses and staff of the hospitals where he had been a chaplain, and even from some of the former patients in those hospitals. This was the most amazing thing for me. One of those former patients would fly 1000 miles every year just to visit him for a few days. This simple, unassuming man had a profound effect on everyone he met. He rarely talked about religion, but I believe he brought more people to God than a busload of preachers.

One of the great things about Brother Pilgrim was his ability to listen. When I was having a bad day, I could always talk to him. There wasn't a damn thing he could do to help me, but somehow I felt better after talking to him. Maybe it was because seeing him in his wheelchair made me realize that the sum of my problems paled in comparison to what he must have gone through in just getting out of bed each morning. Then again, he wasn't just a passive listener. He often came out with an insightful response that would help me see a question or problem in a new light. He also had some wickedly snarky comments about people he didn't like. Oooh, I loved those! God knows, he probably made similar comments about me, but I'm okay with it coming from him.

The day before he died, I was told, Brother Pilgrim was in the kitchen helping prepare the brothers' dinner. He probably felt like hell, but no one knew it because he rarely complained. He talked to the cook excitely about his upcoming trip to New York and the shows he wanted to see. The next morning, he quietly started on his final voyage.

I'm going to miss you, brother. Rest in peace.

Tribute to a fellow pilgrim - The Trailblazer

2008-06-09T22:00:00.001+01:00

About a month ago, I lost a good friend in the Order. His passing was not completely surprising since he has been on the brink several times before—I actually started writing this post last year—but this time he just crashed and never made it back. I had hoped that I would be there to say goodbye when the end was near, but as luck would have it I arrived a week too late.

I really began to know Brother Pilgrim, as I'll call him, only in the last eight years or so. He was a good twenty years older than I, and was one of my teachers in the all-boys high school I attended. Even though I was a self-centered little twit and distrustful of anyone in authority back then (it was the 70's, after all), there was something I liked about Brother Pilgrim. It may have been the sense of self-confidence he exuded. It wasn't a self-confidence that came from being smart, athletic or handsome. He wasn't any of those. He was overweight, walked with a limp and had only a GED, whereas most of the other brothers had masters degrees. I suppose that gave me hope that I wouldn't have to go through life battling my own insecurities. Then again, maybe I'm overthinking this. Maybe I liked him because he showed us movies during religion class instead of lecturing us about the Trinity, Catholic moral teaching and other such nonsense. I also appreciated his sense of humor. As our class advisor one year, it fell to him to give us the standard lecture on proper behavior. I can still remember him telling us not to kick the soda machines when they weren't working, and "since the machines are physically incapable of having sex, there is no sense in asking them to do so." Wink wink. Nudge nudge.

Brother Pilgrim also directed the school plays, which was his real passion. Despite being a shy kid, I loved being in the school plays. It was during practices for the school plays that I learned my first lesson about Brother Pilgrim. He had a quick temper, but would just as quickly get over it. One moment he would be reading me the riot act for my stupidity, and a moment later he would congratulate me on a fine job. It infuriated me that he could so quickly get over his anger while I would stew about it for days. He once kicked me out of a play for arriving half an hour late for practice. I thought it was rather unfair since it was the first time I had been late. When he saw me later in the hallway, he gave me a hearty greeting, which I repaid with an icy glare. (Years later, he confided that he had never liked my part in the script, which had been written by another brother, because it was completely out of context. My late arrival gave him a convenient way of eliminating my part without hurting the feelings of the brother who wrote the play.)

One of the things that was unique about Brother Pilgrim was that he was not a priest. Non-ordained brothers are a minority in our Order, and back then it usually meant that you would be assigned only to manual labor, such as cooking, cleaning, sewing habits or making sandals. When Brother Pilgrim first entered the Order at the tender age of seventeen, that is exactly what he was assigned to do. He spent the first fourteen years of his life in the Order cooking for the brothers. When the fresh breezes of Vatican II started to blow through the Church, he saw other opportunities open to him. He asked and was given permission to pursue studies in theater and theology during the summer months. In his mid-forties, after many years of working in the high school, he enrolled in a Clinical Pastoral Experience program, then worked as a hospital chaplain for ten years. His trailblazing was important for me as I was making my decision to enter the Order. Seeing the various kinds of ministry that he was able to do helped me to choose not to be ordained.

Next: Brother Pilgrim - The Friend

Legenda Fratrum, Pars XVI

2008-06-01T21:06:00.004+01:00

We try to keep our elderly and sick brothers in the monastery as long as possible, resorting to the use of nursing homes only when we can no longer care for them ourselves. This worked very well when new vocations were plentiful because there were always a few zealous, young men around who were eager to score points, if not with God then at least with the superior.

As vocations have dwindled in the past years, however, the "younger" brothers now tend to be in their fifties and sixties. Which is to say that they are they noticeably lacking in the zeal department, and could give a flying f**k about scoring points. Although there are some kind souls who are willing to help the older brothers out of charity, others see it as an imposition. This sometimes leads to situations like this story I heard recently.

Brother C, the senior member of the monastery, had been confined to a wheelchair for years. He was generally depressed, spoke little, and spent most of the day slumped in his wheelchair. Brother S, the brother assigned to look after him, tried in vain to cheer him up and get him to take an interest in some activity. He was beginning to feel that Brother C was being purposely cantakerous, and it annoyed him.

One day, he came into Brother C's room to take him to the dining room for lunch. As usual, Brother C was slumped in his wheelchair. Brother S greeted him, but as usual, Brother C did not respond. Brother S chided him for not sitting up straight and for being so morose, then wheeled him into the dining room. He parked him at his regular table, told him again to sit up straight, then went to sit in his own place.

Just another day in the monastery. Except for Brother C. For as the other brothers at his table soon discovered, Brother C had already passed away, sitting in his wheelchair. One of the brothers loudly announced, "I believe Brother C is expired."

My momma always said...

2008-05-17T22:06:00.003+01:00

if you can't say something nice about someone, don't say anything at all. Which is one of the reasons I have never said anything about our President, Mr. George W. Bush. I am deeply indebted, therefore, to Mr. Wellington Webb, the former mayor of Denver, who found something nice to say about Mr. Bush in his speech to the Colorado Democratic Convention.

"Mr. Bush," he said, "has single-handedly demolished the myth of white supremacy."

It's true. You can always find something nice to say about a person.

I am two

2008-04-02T06:00:00.007+01:00

Today is the second anniversary of Soliloquy so happy birthday to me. Cake and ice cream for everyone! It is time, I feel, for reviewing and evaluating this blog's existence. It's my party so I can do it if I want.

I was introduced to blogging by Belgian Waffle. I enjoyed reading her blog and many of those on her blogroll. Within a short time, Waffle's nefarious intentions were revealed when she began hounding me mercilessly to start my own blog. My excuses fell on deaf ears and so, despite my extremely humble, private nature, I decided to stick it all out for the public to see.

My genre, I decided, would be to describe life inside a monastery with wry, gentle cynicism. I soon discovered, however, that I am not a good at cynicism. Although I found ample material in one particular brother (Brother Porcinus), I generally like life in the monastery too much to poke fun at it. Maybe it had to do with the fact that I was in a leadership position. Perhaps it was due to maturity (which is known to ruin many of the best things in life). Maybe I was afraid of being discovered by the brothers (one of them did find the blog and identify me as the author so I quickly had to take it down and move it to a new address). Since giving up on cynicism (well, most of the time), I feel that I have never found that something that would define my style. This is still a blog in search of a genre.

Despite my extreme humility (I am the humblest person I know), I was not above placing a counter on my blog and checking the results monthly. Alright, weekly. Only occasionally daily. Results have been underwhelming—about 6,800 hits in two years. This should not be surprising since I am averaging less than one post a week. Still I wonder, what is the point of writing if not for the sake of popularity? I despair of ever reaching the heights of blog writing exhibited by Waffle, Heidi, Moobs or Claudia. While I suspect writing may be slightly therapeutic for me, there are probably better and less painful therapies. Lately, blog writing has become a way of disciplining myself.

So what does the future hold for Soliloquy? Will it continue? Probably so, at least for the near future. I have a few more ideas to put out into cyberspace, and there is still hope that one day I will discover the real purpose of this blog.

Legenda Fratrum, Pars XV

2008-03-29T22:17:00.002+01:00

Brother H had a cold just as Holy Week was approaching. Not wishing to deprive his congregation of spiritual nourishment during the holiest week of the year, he decided to tape his homily before completely losing his voice. At Mass a few days later, when it was time for the homily, he turned on the tape recorder and sat down while the recording played.

At the end of the recording, Brother H made no move to turn off the recorder. In fact, he made no move at all. Finally, the server was forced to nudge Brother, who had gone to sleep during his own homily.

The Way We Were, Part I

2008-03-22T15:22:00.001+01:00

According to Blogspot, this is my 100th post so I feel an obligation to make it an especially good one. Fortunately for me (not so much for you), I've been trained to ignore my feelings.

However, I will take advantage of this "postversary" to launch a new series entitled, "The Way We Were." These posts will focus on monastic practices that have gone the way of civilized public discourse. I hope you enjoy them. Today's topic is The Discipline.

What is the Discipline? A young man being initiated into our Order once posed that question to an older brother. In terms of succinctness, there is no better answer than the one he gave: "Hehee. You beat your ass, brother. You beat your ass!"

The Discipline was both the practice of beating your ass and the instrument with which you did it. The instrument was a leather strap about nine inches long (or about 23 cm for those who use that godless metric system). Four or five metal chains about 10 inches long were attached to one end of the strap. At a certain time each day, usually just after supper, all the brothers would line up along the walls in a large room. The shades were drawn and the lights turned out so the room was in complete darkness. At that point, the brothers lifted their robes and lowered their drawers to expose their bare buttocks. Then each brother would swing his Discipline back and forth so that the metal chains would strike his buttocks--not hard enough to draw blood, but presumably hard enough to cause some red welts.* This was done for a prescribed period of time then, at a signal, the drawers came back up and the robes back down.

The purpose of this exercise was to "mortify the flesh." That is, it was supposed to train the brothers to be able to ignore fleshly temptations and worldly allurements. Since the practice was stopped in the late 60's or early 70's, before I joined, I cannot vouch for the effectiveness of the method. However, having taken both Psychology 101 AND Psychology 102, I feel highly qualified to give an opinion on the matter. I suspect the process would have worked something like the following: as the brothers beat their asses, they would have been reminded that they should ignore fleshly temptations, such as thoughts of naked women, and thoughts of naked women in the shower, and thoughts of naked women wrestling with each other, and thoughts of naked women ... well, you get the point. All these thoughts about the naked women that they were supposed to be ignoring would arouse them. Finally, the impressionable young minds of the brothers would have associated ass beatings with getting to think about naked women, leading to generations of sado-masochist monks. If B.F. Skinner hadn't come along to explain all that stuff about positive and negative reinforcement, we might still be doing this crap today.

When things in the Church and the world began to change in the 60's, the younger brothers began to lose respect for this venerable old tradition, which, by the way, was practiced by many religious orders besides the one to which I belong. In one story I heard, a certain brother would sneak a pillow into the room under his robe. When the lights went down, he pulled out the pillow and loosed his fury on it with his Discipline. It made such an impression on the others that the Superior felt compelled to call out, "Moderatio, frater! Moderatio!" Such tomfoolery was the beginning of the end for this practice. So far, I have heard no talk about bringing this one back.

*Children, do not try this at home.

Diplomacy, Indonesian style

2008-03-21T15:21:00.003+01:00

When I was in Indonesia last month, I ate something that my body desperately wanted to get rid of several hours later. After trying various medicines I had at hand, I finally went to a very nice hospital in Medan to get the problem diagnosed and fixed. I was immediately ushered to a bed in the emergency room, where a nurse began taking my temperature, blood pressure, etc.

Nurse (after removing the blood pressure cuff): You have high blood pressure.

Me: Really? I've always had good blood pressure readings.

Nurse: No, it is high. For an old man it would be okay, but for you it is high. How old are you?

Me: [insert age]

Nurse: Your blood pressure is okay.

I see dead people

2008-03-09T16:44:00.003+01:00

I have to admit that for a religion that makes eternal life the center of its sales pitch, we Catholics have a deep fascination with death, or more exactly, with dead people. What other religion proudly displays statues of their dead savior in every place of worship? Another example is the practice of collecting and displaying relics of the saints in our churches. Having possession of the corpse of a saintly person was considered so important in the Middle Ages that grave robbing was not uncommon. When Saint Francis of Assisi died, he was buried in secret for fear that residents of the nearby town of Perugia would attempt to steal his body. It wasn't until 1818 (he died in 1226) that his tomb was found. Most of Saint Catherine of Siena is buried in her hometown, but somehow her skull found its way to a church in Rome. Finally, three different churches claim to have the head of Saint John the Baptist. While this may seem impossible, the explanation is very simple: one is of John as a young man, another when he was middle-aged, and the third when he was an old man.

The religious order to which I belong even goes beyond your average, off-the-shelf Catholic when it comes to dead people. Witness the crypts of our churches in Rome, Palermo and Brno. In keeping with this tradition, I attended a ceremony on Sunday, March 2, during which the body of one of our saints was exhumed. I don't want to mention his name (to prevent random googlers from landing here), but you can read about the ceremony here if you'd like. The procedure is quite normal—in fact it is normally required before anyone is declared a saint. One reason is so that the tomb can be secured to prevent tampering (see above regarding grave robbing). It is rumored that another reason for the procedure is to prevent the embarrasment of canonizing someone who lost his/her faith just before death. There is a legend, for instance, that when the tomb of the saintly Thomas a Kempis was opened, they found a contorted body and scratch marks inside the coffin lid. Apparently, his brothers mistook a good snooze for death, and buried him alive. Or maybe they were just playing a practical joke. Anyway, upon waking up, rather than calmly accepting his situation as the will of God, as any good Christian would do, he despaired and tried to claw his way out of the grave. Wimp!

Despite exhumation being a common procedure, in typical Italian fashion, there were huge amounts of hysteria surrounding the event last Sunday. A small group of people were opposed to mucking around with the saint's body so they asked a court for a restraining order to stop the procedure. The bishop in charge of the ceremony was informed a few hours before it was to begin that the police might be called in to stop it so he was as nervous as George Bush at a spelling bee. Normally, only four or five people would be present for the procedure, but because of the controversy surrounding it and of the saint's popularity, about 100 people were invited to attend. The large crowd merely added to his anxiety. We were given strict instructions before being admitted into the crypt: we were not to leave our seats until the ceremony was over; cameras and cell phones would be confiscated and the owner escorted out of the room.

Most of the ceremony was fairly boring: several decrees about this and that were read, some speeches were given and we said a lot of prayers. Finally, we got to the part everyone had come for. The tomb was opened and the casket lifted out. At one point, a pall-bearer tripped and almost fell into the tomb along with the casket. Great amounts of oohs and aahs. Then the seals on the casket were inspected. They were intact, which was not surprising since the casket had been under three tons of granite until a few days earlier. The outer lid was removed from the casket, revealing an inner lining of zinc. The zinc was cut away and removed, revealing a glass covering over the body. A buzz of excitement. People were craning their necks trying to get a glimpse into the coffin. Unfortunately, there was so much condensation inside the glass covering that it completely obscured the body. Groans of disappointment. The casket was then whisked away into a specially-outfitted room where specialists will work at preserving the body for future generations. Later we were told that despite all the measures taken to avoid it, the top part of the body was fairly decomposed. Sic transit gloria mundi, and all that.

So, you are asking, why were people opposed to the exhumation? According to the request for a restraining order, they merely wanted to prevent a desecration of the saint's body. A look around at the number of tongues, fingers, hearts, skulls and other assorted body parts on display in churches around Italy should be enough to convince anyone that there are other motives at work. One has to do with the large shrine that was built to honor this particular saint. Some people have accused the architect of including masonic symbols throughout the church. These same people are afraid that the exhumation is only an excuse to move the body to the new church. The most likely reason for the opposition has to do with money. Through some convoluted thought process, this group of people has concluded that moving the body into the new church will allow the Vatican to take control of all the donations. Some of those donations now go to the brothers, who in turn use the money locally. The Vatican, in this scenario, will take the money and spend it elsewhere, thus depriving the locals of their livelihood.

I sense an opera coming on.

Singapore again

2008-02-11T09:13:00.000+01:00

I am back in the Singapore airport—hour 5 of a 10 hour layover. Unlike my layover here last week, this time I have no access to a frequent flyer lounge. Bummer! This has to be one of the nicest airports in the world. The fact that I am writing this on a freely available computer with Internet access should give you an idea. They also have freely available massage chairs, among other free amenities. If one has a little money, you can take advantage of lounges with recliners, showers, manicures, massages and a gym. There is even a transit hotel, where you can rent a room for as little as six hours.

Although it is nice, I feel that I have explored every lounge, restaurant and duty free store that the airport has to offer. As a vacation destination, I really cannot recommend it.

The one week I spent in Indonesia was quite interesting. Northern Sumatra, where I was, is home to the Batak. The highlight of the trip was a visit to Samosir, which is an island in Lake Toba. That is, it's an island in a lake on an island in the ocean. Samosir was considered a sacred spot for the Batak. I was heard that any non-Batak who managed to find the island would be killed to prevent him from revealing its location. Luckily for me, that is no longer the AAARGH!

Ha ha. Just kidding!

Anyway, the Indonesian government has been trying, somewhat unsuccessfully, to market Samosir and Lake Toba as a tourist spot. It really merits greater attention. The lake is beautiful, and the government has gone to great lengths to keep it clean. Since it lies at a relatively high altitude, the climate is quite pleasant. Samosir itself is like a museum of Batak culture—with tradition homes and the distinctive tombs of their celebrated ancestors. Now, if they would only improve the road from Medan.

I normally avoid acquiring souvenirs on my visits, except for a few postcards. For one thing, fitting two or three weeks of necessities into a bag that can be carried on the plane leaves little room for souvenirs. This time, however, I made an exception and picked up a nice stomach virus to remind me of my visit to Indonesia.

A quick post

2008-02-03T21:35:00.000+01:00

It's 4:30 a.m., and I am sitting in a lounge in Singapore's Changi airport, having arrived here from Los Angeles via Tokyo. I am waiting for a flight to Medan, Indonesia. Two days ago, I was in western Canada, where the high temperature was -1 degree. When we arrived in Singapore around 1:30 a.m., the temperature was 24 degrees. Do I ever feel ridiculous carrying around a heavy coat in the tropics.

In Canada, I attended the episcopal ordination of our former general minister (the top guy in our Order). The poor guy has gone from being in charge of an Order with 11,000 members to being in charge of a diocese with 36 priests. Alright, there are 65,000 Catholics in his diocese, but it still must feel like a step down. And he looks terrible in purple. He was always the type of brother who liked being around other brothers. Now the nearest monastery is at least 10 hours away by car. It seems more like a punishment than an honor.

I'll be spending about 10 days in Indonesia, then another 10 days in Papua New Guinea before heading back to Rome. Obviously, I am excited about having another opportunity to contract malaria or some other strange tropical disease.

Internet access in both places will be rather limited so I'll finally have a good excuse for not posting to my blog.

Someone pinch me

2007-11-30T00:01:00.000+01:00

I discovered this great thing called NaBloPoMo over on Belgian Waffle's site. Basically, you have to post at least one entry a day for all of November. I'm getting a late start, but I'll give it a go.

So much has happened in the International Cloister this month that there isn't room in this post to recount all. I could create several posts, but that would be like work so I'll just be selective instead.

The month began with a series of meetings with the Conferences* of our Order in the America's. The first meeting, held in San Juan, Puerto Rico, was with the two Spanish-speaking Conferences of Latin America. The second meeting was with the North American Conference, which was held in Tampa, Florida. The third meeting was in Manaus, Brazil, with the Brazilian-speaking Conference of Latin America.

The venue of the last meeting was by far the most interesting. Manaus is located at the edge of the Amazon rainforest and is where the Rio Negro and the Solimoes River combine to form the Amazon River. I knew the Amazon was a big river, but you cannot imagine how large until you see the large freighters anchored there—a 1000 kilometers from the ocean!

We had the privilege of spending half a day on someone's yacht (I was told it belonged to the former governor of the state of Amazzonia). They took us out to the spot where the two rivers meet. I hear you thinking, "ho hum", but it was really amazing. The Rio Negro is so named because it picks up a lot of organic material as it passes through the forest, and that, combined with its great depth, makes the water appear black. The Solimoes, on the other hand, picks up a lot of clay from the riverbed, which makes the water yellow. This is what happens when they meet:

The green area at the top of the picture is the last piece of land separating the two rivers, which was about a kilometer away from where this picture was taken. That little red speck just above and to the left of the picture's center is another boat, which should give you a sense of proportion. The very clear demarcation between the two rivers continues for several more kilometers downstream. I found it fascinating, but that's what happens when you are denied access to Internet porn. Anyway, that's a story for another day.

Just when I thought life could not get any better, I saw a pink dolphin in the water. After checking the alcoholic content on my can of beer, I timidly mentioned to another brother that I saw what appeared to be a pink dolphin in the water. Much scoffing. But, my friends, it was not the beer, and here's the proof!

Granted, it doesn't look much like a dolphin in this picture, but the sky was overcast and the dolphins were fast, making it difficult to get a good picture. I think Brazil is one of the few places in the world to have fresh water dolphins so I feel privileged to have seen one. I wanted to swim with the dolphins, but 1) I didn't have a bathing suit with me and, despite what you might have heard about Brazilians, they don't really approve of skinny dipping, and 2) I was told that if you swam with the dolphins you would also have to swim with the piranha, putting any protuding body parts at risk of mastication (see above re: no bathing suit).

It was a great experience. The icing on the cake was that on the flight back to Rome, I earned my Star Alliance gold card, which means no more waiting in long lines and at least a chance of getting into the much coveted business class section once in a while. Adios, hoi poloi! Bwahaha!

* Our Order is divided into distinct geographical territories called either provinces, vice provinces or custodies depending on their size. A Conference is a group of provinces, vice provinces and custodies in a particular area of the world, which provides a forum for the leaders of those provinces, etc. to discuss similar issues. Although it is not an authoritative body, participating members can work on common policies.

House art

2007-10-22T09:32:00.000+01:00

While out for a walk one afternoon in the suburb of Sydney where I am staying, I stumbled across some funky house art that I had to share with you. Clicking on the pictures will give you a larger version.

This first one was so clever, it made me smile. [Hint: Look on the porch below the painting.]

This picture below are just a few of the ceramic sculptures that filled the front lawn of one house. Unfortunately, the lawn was quite a bit above street level so I could not get a good picture. At least you get the idea.

Legenda Fratrum, pars XIV

2007-10-17T01:37:00.000+01:00

Visiting Down Under for the first time has provided me with new stories about the brothers. For example....

Brother H was saying mass at a sisters convent on the feast of Our Lady's Assumption. Being an experienced homilist, he knew that it was essential to get the audience's attention immediately so he began the homily by kissing the feet of the chapel's statue of the Virgin Mary. He then began to extol her virtues. The sisters turned to each other and smiled. After going on a bit, he stopped, returned to the statue, and kissed it on the shins. The sisters smiled, a little more nervously this time. The glances were more furtive. He went on some more. Then he kissed the statue's knees. The sisters shifted in their seats. Some tugged at their collars and bit their lower lips. More extolling. When he stopped talking and started back toward the statue, the sisters began fanning themselves with their prayer books.

What a lucky man he was

2007-10-12T07:09:00.000+01:00

I am a lucky person, in the sense that I have had a lot of things that many people do not: a stable, loving family life, a family that never experienced poverty, a good education, good friends, opportunities to travel, and others too numerous to mention. I am not a lucky person in the sense of winning contests and games of chance. I do not remember ever winning a contest.

For one brief, sweet moment earlier this week, however, the gods of minor fortunes smiled on me. I was flying from Sydney to Melbourne, accompanied by one of the local brothers. Although we had checked in online, when we reached the airport, I went to Qantas' service desk to have my frequent flyer number added to the ticket. The gate agent took much longer than I thought was necessary for such a minor operation, and I was beginning to get annoyed. Finally, she said, "I believe you are traveling with a mate. You might want to call him over here because I've just upgraded the two of you."

Maybe crossing the equator turns one's fortunes upside down, as well.

Down Under

2007-10-11T14:00:00.001+01:00

I’m in Australia for a few weeks, having arrived here on October fourth. This is not the first time I “crossed the line” since I visited Indonesia and Papua New Guinea in the past, but it is my first time in Australia.
The brothers here are a curious mix of various nationalities. As waves of immigrants arrived in Australia from various countries, bishops requested priests who could say mass in the languages of the new arrivals. The brothers here obliged by recruiting missionaries from the countries of the immigrants. Thus there are Italian, Czech, Polish and Indonesian brothers in the Province, as well as native Australians. The diversity of practices and cultures among these brothers did not exactly make for smooth sailing in the early years of the Province, but they seem to have at last found a certain equilibrium. In fact, the cultural differences makes them more interesting.
I had a day off from visiting the friars and I used it to see some of the other unusual creatures on this continent (see picture).

Rocket bro

2007-10-06T00:22:00.000+01:00

I calculate that on August 31, somewhere between Frankfurt and Mumbai, I surpassed 100,000 miles of airline travel since taking this position in September 1996. I further calculate that on November 2, somewhere between Frankfurt and Milano, I will surpass 100,000 miles of air travel this calendar year. If you added in all the miles I traveled in India by car, train, auto rickshaw, ox cart and foot, you'd be talking real distances!

You have to admit

2007-09-23T10:16:00.000+01:00

that the Republicans (we're talking about the United States here) usually have bigger coglioni than the Democrats. This is especially true of the Roman Catholic brownshirts within the Republican party. The latest case in point, in my opinion, is their attempt to position Rudy Giuliani as the Great White Hope of the pro-life cause in the U.S. These are the people who, during the last presidential election, opined that burning at the stake and an eternity in the deepest pit of hell was too good for John Kerry because he was only "personally opposed" to abortion. Now they will have us believe that a man who has been consistently outspoken in his support of abortion rights is the best candidate for the pro-life cause. According to this group, he should be elected president, if not canonized, because he has promised to appoint only "strict constructionist" judges. According to this (as yet untested) theory, strict constructionist judges would have to overturn Roe v. Wade because it legislates from the bench. And this despite the fact that every judge he ever appointed was pro-choice.

To which I say, in the immortal words of The Who (the best rock band in the history of the world—don't even TRY disputing that on these pages!), "Won't Get Fooled Again." After all, the world stands in awe at how much our current "pro-life" president has done to protect innocent life. Can you spell Iraq?

I'll give him an "A" for chutzpah, but he won't get my vote. Pro-life, indeed. Ha!

Q: Why read Indian newspapers?

2007-08-28T09:09:00.000+01:00

A: Because they print articles such as this. I have never seen stories of reincarnated scientists in any other reliable newspaper, nor in USA Today. A more detailed account of the story can be found here.

Actually, I am sceptical about the whole story. Call me closed-minded if you must, but I am just not convinced about the whole reincarnation thing. Then again, maybe my therapist is wrong and I really am the reincarnation of a 12th century Turkish stripper (stage name: Bushy). What really makes me suspicious about this boy's claims, however, is the name of the scientist. I can find no reference anywhere on the Internet to Wallace Regart. Interestingly, that name is an anagram for "Lace Lager Wart", and I don't have to tell you what that means!

28 years and 13,000 km later

2007-08-13T14:54:00.000+01:00

In my previous post, I mentioned meeting a friend whom I haven't seen in 28 years. L and I became friends when we worked together in a bookstore during my last year of college. Before the end of the year, she was transferred to the bookstore at Purdue University in Indiana. As the date of graduation neared, I and another candidate for the Order (who also worked in the same bookstore), decided to take a road trip before entering the novitiate next fall. At the time, we thought that once we entered the Order, we would never see anything more of the world. So the two of us drove to Purdue to see L. While there, we visited the nearby Notre Dame University. Then all of us continued on to Chicago. After that, I never saw or heard from L again, that is until April of 2006 when I received an e-mail from her. The e-mails were followed by phone calls, and I learned that she had married, had two grown children and was living in Texas.

Last May, I had the opportunity of attending the commencement exercises at Notre Dame University. I remembered the road trip 28 years earlier, and reflected on the irony. The first time I visited, I was afraid that I would never see anything of the world. The second time I visited, I was living out of a suitcase seven months of the year. I e-mailed this thought to L, and it was then that I learned that she had taken a job in the Philippines. We made plans to meet during my visit.

It was great to see her again after all those years. We recognized each other immediately, which means, I suppose, that the years have been relatively kind to her. She has the same smile and laugh that I loved so much in my college days. We spent a lot of the day talking about what we've done since we last saw each other. We laughed about the fact that her driver (which company policy requires her to have here) always calls her "ma'am". It was just so good to know that despite life's ups and downs, she is happy and doing well.

Pearl of the Orient Seas...

2007-08-13T11:10:00.000+01:00

is the nickname of the Philippines, and a very apt one as far as I am concerned. I have been here a little over a week, and I can confidently say that I love it. IMHO the country is at the sweet spot in its development—still "primitive" enough to be adventurous, but developed enough to provide basic comforts, such as safe food and water, dependable electricity supplies, and toilet paper. In addition to its natural attractions, such as white sand beaches, mountains and pristine forests, it is also beginning to take pride in presenting its pre-colonial and colonial history and culture. Not to mention its mild climate and its friendly, English-speaking people.

Yesterday, was a special day for me. The brother provincial had kindly arranged my schedule to give me the day off. A few months ago, I discovered by chance that a friend whom I have not seen for 28 years is now working in the Philippines so we arranged to meet yesterday. More on her in a later post. We spent the day at Villa Escudero, a sort of low-budget amusement park. There is a musuem containing a large collection of both pre- and post-colonial artifacts. Unfortunately, the collection was too diverse—containing everything from pre-historic tools and burial sites to 19th century religious statues and devotional items. Artifacts were also poorly labeled. Still, it was educational and interesting in its own way. They actually have the basis for what could eventually become three or more separate museums.

From the museum, we were taken by caribou cart (the caribou is a native animal of the Philippines that resembles a water buffalo) to one of the most unique restaurants that I have even seen. The chairs and tables sit in the middle of a stream of water about 10 centimeters deep. At one end of the "restaurant" is a waterfall. There are steep banks on either side so between the water, mist and shade, it is a pleasantly cool spot even on a sunny day. The restaurant serves buffet-style lunch consisting of roasted chicken and fish, rice, baked sweet potatoes crusted with brown sugar, and assorted vegetables. Yummy, and way too much.

After lunch, we attended a program of native song and dance performed by the employees of the park. My favorite part of the program was the Tinikling, or bamboo dance. Very engaging.

The park also offered rides on bamboo rafts in a small lake, but we declined. At our age, the excitement may have done us in!

Coconutty politics

2007-08-08T14:01:00.000+01:00

You'll be relieved to know that I survived India and four days in Malaysia, and am now in the Philippines. Whereas it was raining much of the time in India and Malaysia, here it is, uh, also raining. It seems I arrived just in time for Tropical Depression "Chedong", which is pronounced "Cheding", of course. This reminds me of the 9-ball billiard tournament I was forced to watch the other day with one of the brothers. The winner of the tournament was a certain Ching, who hailed from Taiwan, I think. There was also a Chang and a Chung in the tournament. I wondered whether Ching would become Chang then Chung as he became older? But I digress....

Although I am in the Philippines, I must tell you one last story about India. I spent a day in the so-called "High Ranges" of Kerala, where there are three dams that provide hydroelectric power and irrigation water for the state. My brother guide told me that a local politician, a member of the opposition, decided he could make the dams into an election issue. When stumping among the local farmers, who were mostly poorly educated, he claimed that the government was giving them useless water. After all, they removed all the electricity from it before giving it to the farmers!

Instant karma

2007-07-25T03:41:00.000+01:00

The brothers in India have a seminary near a small village in Andhra Pradesh. Because the river near the village often dries up during the summer months, the government installed a water well for the people. The well was soon taken over by the high caste villagers, who made it clear that the lower castes were not welcome to use it. If by chance one of the lower castes managed to get water from the well, the high caste people hired a Hindu holy man to purify the well.

One day not many years ago, a young, poor girl was walking to the river to get water for her family. Because it was summer, she would have had to walk several kilometers to find a place where the river still had water. Passing the well, and not seeing anyone around, she decided to fill her jug there. She was caught in the act by a man of high caste, who rushed over, slapped the girl and smashed her water pot on the ground. This incident was witnessed by one of the brothers.

Very shortly after that incident, the town well dried up. The seminary's well was deeper, however, and still had water so the brothers invited the villagers to use their well as long as necessary. One day, the above mentioned brother noticed that both the little girl and the man from the incident above were in queue to get water from the seminary well. He walked up to the man, told him that he had witnessed his treatment of the girl, and informed him that as a result he would not be allowed to have any water from the well that day. Not accustomed to being scolded, the man cursed, argued and hurled insults at the brother, but in the end, there was nothing he could do. He went home without water that day.

Today, the village well again has water, and all are welcome to use it.

Indian update

2007-07-21T04:24:00.000+01:00

As of today, I have completed the third of my four week excursion in India. So far, I have only experienced one mild case of Delhi belly (thanks to Pog for the precise medical term). My experiences to this point can be summarized as follows: first two weeks—hot; third week—rain.

I am experiencing a monsoon for the first time in my life. Earlier this week, the car in which I was traveling had to deviate several times due to flooded roads. When I reached the designated town, I had to transfer from the car to a bus because of another flooded road. Upon reaching the monastery, I had to wade through calf-deep water from the road to the building. The monastery, I learned, was built near the confluence of two rivers, both of which were currently over their banks. We entered the monastery through the chapel, where the water was only ankle deep. The residential part of the monastery was mostly dry when I arrived, but water slowly began rising in that part of the building as well. My job was to interview the two brothers living in that monastery, then move on to the next town. They were the shortest interviews I ever conducted. As we ate lunch in the only dry part of the house, I watched as the water rose ever higher. I began to wonder about snakes and other nasty creatures known to live in water.

When I finally left the monastery, the water outside had risen to knee depth. I kept checking my feet and legs for leeches. I was never so glad to see a Jeep in my life. The following day, I read in the paper that people returning to their homes after the flood were being warned about the snakes, scorpions and poisonous spiders that may have taken up residence there. When I recounted my experiences to a co-worker the following day, he told me that the last time he visited that monastery, the brothers had taken him to the river, where they had seen several crocodiles! Sometimes, it's better not to have all the facts.

Curry and rice, anyone?

2007-07-01T16:00:00.000+01:00

I leave early tomorrow morning for a month-long trip to India, where I am supposed to determine whether two of our fledgling jurisdictions are ready to become provinces. From India, I travel to Kuala Lumpur to visit the brothers there, then on to the Philippines for more visits. Finally, I am going back to Malaysia, this time to Kuching, where I am taking five days of vacation.

This will be only my second time in India, the last being over ten years ago. It will be interesting to see how much things have changed in the meantime. I must admit to being slightly apprehensive about the trip. Strange foods, customs, and languages were more exciting when I was younger. Now I am more concerned about diarrhea, malaria, Japanese encephalitis and the fluffiness of my pillow. To give you an idea, half of my twenty-five kilo allowance consists in various medicines. Luckily, the Indian brothers have shown themselves to be wonderful hosts in the past, and my Indian counterpart will be traveling with me for much of the time, which is comforting.

One leg of my travels in India involves going from Vijayawada to Hyderabad... alone. Although the two cities aren't far apart, the brothers mercifully decided not to expose me to the horrors of Indian trains, buying me a plane ticket instead. The flight is on Kingfisher Airlines, and it cost a grand total of $85. Now I like a bargain as much as the next person, but I also believe you get what you pay for. When I see an $85 plane fare, therefore, I'm thinking rusty wings, missing rivets and engine repairs done with hammers. Rather than panic, I decided to check the airline's safety record so I googled "Kingfisher disaster screams charred remains", but the only hit from that search was someone complaining about his meal. So I broadened the search to "Kingfisher Airlines safety". This netted a few more hits, and one of them precisely answered my concerns. It was a review of the airline that read, in part: "Kingfisher Airlines appears to be more interested in flashiness than in safety. They have a reputation for having the hottest flight attendants in definitely the shortest skirts."

This may be my best trip ever!

Betty Butterfield visits the Catholic Church

2007-06-10T22:01:00.001+01:00

Too bad this video wasn't available when I was teaching catechism. It would have been very helpful!

Old Fartdom

2007-05-12T23:55:00.000+01:00

Break out the bran muffins and the prune juice! Brother Lawrence turned 50 today. That's right, half a century of using up oxygen and shedding dead skin cells.

It all began on 12 May 1957 at 12:40 AM, when a 5 lb. 9 oz., 19-inch long bundle of joy was pushed out of his warm, comfy surroundings into the world of a small Kansas town with the help of a certain Dr. A.W. Beahm (thanks to my Mom for the details). It was a Sunday—Mother's Day, in fact. His parents were undoubtedly relieved to hear that he was completely healthy. About a year earlier, they had suffered through the heartbreaking loss of his older sister at the age of only three months from a congenital heart defect. His older brother was only three years old; he did not fully comprehend how his life would be affected by the new addition to the family. He would get a little sister two years later and a little brother five year after that.

His first memories are from about the age of four. He was a shy kid, a trait that he has retained all his life. Growing up in a very small town (population 160) basically meant that you had to get along with all the kids because there weren't enough of them to choose among. There was no movie theater or arcade in town, but lots of trees to climb, dirt to play in, some abandoned buildings to explore and railroad tracks on which to place pennies. Kids played baseball during the spring and summer, football in the fall, and built snow forts and sledding ramps in the winter.

Although playing sports was almost mandatory (see above), he was always more of a bookish sort. When he was old enough to read, he loved paging through the children's encyclopedia that his parents had bought, and later through the World Book Encyclopedia. He took an early interest in science—he wanted to know what made things work. One of his favorite Christmas gifts of all time was a junior chemistry set, with which he nearly set the house afire a couple of times. He also took an early interest in girls, having picked out his future wife by the fourth grade.

High school was a blur of teen angst, social awkwardness, uncertainty about the future, risky behaviors, the shattering of some of his youthful naivete and attempts to understand his place in the world. Somewhere along the line, he began to think about becoming a religious brother. At first he struggled against the idea, but eventually could resist it no longer.

It was in high school that he first felt a desire to see Europe, an exotic place where people drove on the wrong side of the road, bathed infrequently and drank lots of wine and beer. An opportunity presented itself the summer between his junior and senior year to go on a school-sponsored "Foreign Study League" tour, but his family could not afford it. He grumbled that he would never, ever get another chance to see Europe, which is rather humorous in retrospect.

And here I am today, fifty years after it began. In some ways, I still feel as shy and curious as that four-year old kid. I have enjoyed my fifty trips around the sun, and look forward to many more. There are more places I want to discover, more people I want to meet and more experiences I want to have. Thanks Mom and Dad. And thanks Dr. Beahm.

Brother gets culture

2007-05-03T14:57:00.000+01:00

I eagerly accepted an invitation from one of the brothers of the monastery I am presently visiting to attend a lecture by the obscure Russian Islamic philosopher, Warid el Yakimovich. Actually, it turned out to be a Weird Al Yankovic concert. Oh well, when life gives you lemons....

This was the opening concert of his new American tour, promoting his recently-released album, Straight Outta Lynwood. The new album proves that Weird Al is in no danger of losing his title as King of the Song Send-up. "White and Nerdy" was hilarious, from the moment he entered the stage on his Segway. "You're Pitiful" had me giggling like a ten year-old on nitrous oxide. Of course, no Weird Al concert would be complete without his signature medley of popular rock and rap tunes set to a polka beat and expertly played on the accordion by Weird Al himself.

While the new songs were great, I was really waiting to hear some of my old favorites, and Weird Al did not disappoint. While the old Michael Jackson parodies, "Eat It" and "I'm Fat", have lost some of their luster, other classics, such as "Smells Like Nirvana" and "Amish Paradise" have not. The two Star Wars-themed songs, "Yoda" (to the tune of Lola) and "The Saga Begins", were crowd favorites. His encore included the unreleased (for good reasons) "Everyone Has a Cell Phone" and a song from his Running With Scissors album, "Albuquerque".

The concert made good use of video, although there were some technical problems with it in the early part of the concert. Certain songs were enhanced with scenes from his music videos. Between numbers, there were mock interviews with musical celebrities, such as Mariah Carey, Madonna, Keith Richards and Kevin Federline. This latter was especially unmerciful.

All in all, it was classic Weird Al. I highly recommend seeing this concert. By the way, there were a lot of young kids at the concert. I doubt they will understand the humor, but the show is family-friendly. The only vulgur words used were during the celebrity interviews, and those were bleeped.

Retirement planning

2007-04-30T01:15:00.000+01:00

I have just finished responding to an email from a friend who recently left her monastery after being a nun for 20 years. In her email, she lamented the hardships she is facing in the real world, and urged me to never abandon my life as a brother.

Her concern that I might one day walk away from this life is not entirely without foundation. Once, years ago, I confided to her that I felt as though I had never really unpacked my suitcases—that I might leave the next day if the right opportunity came along. I knew, of course, that this was a very unsatisfactory way to live so I decided to deal with it through a method I have used successfully to make other difficult decisions in my life, i.e. I ignored it til it went away.

I have reached a stage of my life, however, when I no longer have a desire to chuck it all in. After all, why give up free food at my age? As a nod, however, to that unredeemed part of myself, I have decided that in my waning years I shall be a grumpy old brother whose only joy will be to rob the younger brothers of theirs. Yes, if I see one enjoying the company of a female friend, I will accuse him of cavorting with loose women and causing scandal to others. If one has a drink, I'll accuse him of being an alcoholic. God forbid that anyone should go to the movies!

And with all the practice I'm getting by keeping this blog, I feel I shall be very good at my future occupation.

Dissipation at high noon

2007-04-18T02:52:00.000+01:00

Now that Lent is over and we have unburied the Alleluia, as we say, I can once again indulge in more than just bread and water. Ahem. Thus it came to pass that lunch today was courtesy of Open Grove Claudia. We went to a Tex-Mex place called "Rio Grande Mexican Restaurant," where I had the flautas de pollo with sides of rice and black beans. Very good. For desert, I had the flan. It was denser than usual, but very good, as well. Best of all, however, were the margaritas. Well, margarita (as in one) for me. Claudia had like five of them, but then she had to drive so she needed the extra courage.

During the two-hour lunch, our topics of conversation covered, among other things, politics, religion, bee-keeping, American versus European culture, friendship, life and her relationship with Mark McGuire* (this latter topic surfaced sometime around her fourth margarita, I think, so its credibility was slightly impaired).

A good time was had by all.

* Mark McGuire?
Yes, your majesty. A well-known player of the quaint sport the colonials call "baseball", an inferior form of our own cricket. One might say that he is to baseball what David Beckham is to football.
Oh, I see. Carry on then.

Legenda Fratrum, Pars XIII

2007-04-11T04:07:00.000+01:00

This week, I can be found in the great plains of America presiding at my first provincial chapter*. By pure coincidence, this chapter happens to be in my own province. If Jesus was correct that no prophet is accepted in his own country, then I must not be a prophet because I have been rather warmly received.

Being here is a homecoming, of sorts, for another reason. The monastery where the chapter is being held is where I made my novitiate back in the early 80's. The monastery and its attached church are dedicated to Saint Fidelis of Sigmaringen, a Capuchin friar martyred by a group of Protestants in the Grison area of Switzerland. I visited the site of his martyrdom several years ago, and my Swiss brother guide informed me that St. Fidelis got what was coming to him. Apparently, his fiery sermons had exactly their intended effect of infuriating the locals.

One of the brothers who lived in the monastery during my year as a novice was Father J. He was 85 years old at the time, the senior brother of the province and a transplant from Germany. His uncle had been pastor when the church was built so Fr. J was understandably proud of it. The church was an historical landmark so it received visitors by the busload from near and far. Fr. J would provide a tour for these visitors, including his own brand of theological reflection on each picture and stained glass window in the church. For example, "In dis vindow, ve haf the Nativity. Ven Jesus vas born, he passed tru da vomb of the Virgin Mary like light tru da vindow."

One day, a group of Baptists, complete with minister, visited the Church and took Fr. J's tour. When he reached the picture of the martyrdom of St. Fidelis over the main altar, Fr. J. stated, "Hier is da martyrdom of Saint Fidelis. He vas murdered by the heretical Grison Calvinists." The minister, wishing to spare Br. J any embarrasment, whispered to him, "Father, I think you should know that the Baptists are followers of Calvin."

Unimpressed, Fr. J responded, "Dats alright. You're all heretics just like they vere!"

* A chapter, for those of you unfamiliar with monastic terminology, is a meeting of the brothers for electing leaders and discussing matters affecting the life of the brothers.

The New York Tales

2007-04-08T18:03:00.000+01:00

The Disgruntled Passenger's Tale

So I was flying on US Air to New York last week. On top of all the other indignities visited upon the denizens of that mile-high slum called, "Coach Class", they announce that if you want to listen to the movie, you must use your own headphones or purchase a set for $5 or €5. (For the record, there is quite a large spread between $5 and €5, these days, but that is another story.) This, of course, was the one time I had forgotten to bring headphones. I pay for their cheap piece of crap with a $20 bill, at which point the flight attendant informs me that she does not have change. You would think that an airline that charges for drinks and headphones, besides selling duty free items, would have change for a twenty on hand.

Note to the airline industry: MAKE UP YOUR MINDS! If you want to be in the retail business, have sufficient change on hand. If you want to be an airline, give free headsets and roll the cost into the price of the ticket.

Tale of the Obsessive-Compulsive Flyer

Flight attendant to the lady in the seat next to me: "May I get you something to drink?"

Lady: "Yes. Three glasses of water with one ice cube each."

A pain in the neck

2007-03-14T11:11:00.000+01:00

Ever since returning to Rome on the 1st of February, I have been suffering from a sore neck and right shoulder. In addition, for the first week after my return, my left ear was completely blocked. While talking to my parents on the phone a few nights ago, my father offered this very sympathetic advice: “It’s hell getting old.”
This experience has made me realize that I have been quite fortunate in terms of my health. So far, I have even escaped any signs of heart disease, which tends to run in my family. My cholesterol, weight and blood pressure are all within acceptable ranges for my age. In fact, except for routine check-ups, I have only had to see a doctor twice in my life.
The first time was when I was about three or four years old. I stuck a small wooden bead up my nose because... well, because I could. This is when I discovered the principle that just because something goes in easily, it will not necessarily come out easily. After failed attempts on my part and on the part of my parents to remove the bead, I was taken to the emergency room, where a kindly doctor was able to remove the bead without causing too much discomfort.
My second medical incident occurred when I was about eight or nine years old. I woke up one morning with my head cocked to one side. Trying to straighten it hurt so I just kept it cocked. It must have seemed that I was in a permanently puzzled state of mind. Both my mother and I must have felt that it would eventually straighten itself out because I ended up going to school that way. By the time I went home for lunch (these were the days before the state-sponsored torture called the “school lunch program”), it still had not straightened out. The Cosmic Sadist saw to it that mother had prepared soup for lunch that day. As each spoonful approached my mouth, I had to tilt the spoon so that I could get it into my mouth, which meant that most of it ended up on the table or in my lap. I got the last laugh on the Cosmic Sadist, however, because I was able to skip school for the rest of the day in order to go to the doctor.
This time, my dad took me to a chiropractor. The doctor put me face down on a reclining table and began to examine me by feeling the vertebrae in my neck. Suddenly, he yanked my head to one side. There was a “POP” so loud that it surprised both my dad and the doctor. I wasn’t surprised. I was stunned. So stunned, in fact, that I couldn’t cry, which is what a deeper part of my brain was telling me to do.
That had put one of the errant vertebrae back in its place, but there was still another one to go. The doctor tried the maneuver again, but this time I was ready for it and tensed up, which made it ineffective. The doctor told me to relax, but how is one to relax when someone is trying to twist your head off?! Next he told me to lie on my side on a little bed in the office. He raised an adjustable head rest to keep my head at a comfortable angle. Then he began talking to my dad about this and that. I was left wondering when he was going to do his job and get my neck.... WHAM! The head rest suddenly gave way and POP! went the second vertebrae. This time I was not only stunned, but incredibly awed by the clever tactics of this doctor.
The doctor urged my dad to bring me back for follow-up treatments, but my dad and I saw through that scheme. I never went back, and have never had any problems since. Oh, wait a minute. DANG YOU, COSMIC SADIST!

State-sponsored robbery

2007-03-03T11:53:00.000+01:00

When I moved to Rome last year, I decided to send two boxes of stuff, mostly books and CD's, that I could not fit into my suitcases, nor could I live without. Seriously, how long could a person last without a dose of "Who's Next" now and again? One of the brothers told me he had a friend (first red flag) who worked for a well-known freight company, whose name I shall disguise as F***x, and that this friend could send the packages to me free of charge (second red flag). Before leaving on October 20, I informed said brother that the boxes were in my office, and were ready for delivery.

On my next trip to the States in December, the boxes were in my office, ready for delivery still. This was not entirely bad since it allowed me to further refine my selection process [Bible? No. Prayer books? No. Guide to Rhyming Cockney Slang? Most definitely!] I placed one box, ready for delivery, outside brother's door. Before returning to Rome on January 1, the box was gone—supposedly delivered to his friend at F***x.

By February 1, the date of my next trip to the States, I had not yet received the box. Brother called his friend, who apologized for the delay. Post 9/11 rules necessitated listing the contents of all packages in detail, along with each item's value. I'll admit that I have never worked for an international freight company, but it seems to me that this is something you might want to tell your customers BEFORE taking consignment. F***x friend helpfully itemized the contents of my box (without my knowledge or permission, I might add) and gave ridiculously high values to everything. $10 for a Mariah Carey compilation CD! WTF?! Then he puts everything into a new box twice the size of the old one, you know, to better attract the attention of the customs agents.

The final tab? For a box whose contents was nominally worth $677.50, but in reality probably worth much less, I had to pay €166 in Italian duties and value added taxes. Oh, and did I mention that several of the items had been purchased in Italy, where I already paid the value added tax on them? So much for "free" delivery.

A bad day

2007-02-28T17:13:00.000+01:00

My day began on a bad note, thanks to yesterday evening.

The evening started out well. A group of brothers and their co-workers from various provinces in North America were in Denver to attend a meeting hosted by my province. There is a long-standing custom of taking the participants in these meetings to a restaurant that showcases the local culture or cuisine. We took them to the Buckhorn Exchange, the oldest restaurant in Denver. The menu consists of things like Rattlesnake, Elk, Buffalo, Quail, Rocky Mountain Oysters (don't ask) and other wild game, along with your more typical steak offerings. The walls of the restaurant are festooned with mounted heads of large beasts, stuffed birds, lots of memorabilia from "Buffalo Bill" Cody (in whose Wild West shows the founder of the restaurant once worked) and pictures of the famous people who had eaten there. Definitely not the place to take your animal rights activist friends.

The evening went well, and I was pleasantly surprised at how adventurous the group was in their food choices. At the end of the meal, as we were walking towards the door, we were gawking at some of the odder wall decorations, such as the two-headed lamb. I was baffled by a seven-foot long tapered tube hanging from the ceiling. Noticing my puzzled expression, a waiter volunteered that it was the penis of a sperm whale! I wonder where they found one of those around here!

I recalled this incident as I looked at myself in the mirror this morning, which has caused me to suffer from an overwhelming sense of inadequacy. Just what I needed today, a bad case of penis envy!

Just when you thought it was safe to be an atheist

2007-02-17T21:25:00.000+01:00

In one of my former stints in Rome, I became friends with T, who was studying at one of Rome's universities. She liked me because I was American (you'd have to ask her why--I certainly don't understand it) and I liked her because she was female. Not for that reason alone, obviously, but I do feel the need to get away from the all-male environment occasionally and expand my horizons with some of that legendary female irrationality. T was young, pretty, fun to be with, but at the same time strong enough to resist my sex appeal so she fit the bill quite nicely.

After moving back to the States, I kept in touch with T, who went back to Kenya to advance the cause of women's rights in eastern Africa. Over the years, we made various plans to meet, but they all fell through. I hoped that sometime during this six-year assignment in Rome I might get to the chance to travel to Kenya, but as I saw my schedule filling up, I began to despair of ever seeing her again.

On Thursday, I received the following e-mail from T: "...Just to let you know that i will be traveling to Toronto tomorrow for a job interview with WACC...."

What are the chances of that?! We're having dinner tonight!

Life on the rocks

2007-02-15T14:52:00.000+01:00

The end of this week and the beginning of the next finds Br Lawrence in Ontario, Canada. There were several empty seats on the plane yesterday despite the fact that ours seemed to be the only flight to Toronto that was not cancelled. I wonder why so few people want to come here since it was a balmy -27° C (-4° F) this morning.

Just call me 'Columbus'

2007-01-31T17:32:00.000+01:00

It would seem that I have discovered a new country. I checked my site stats this morning and discovered that one percent of the visitors to my site are from an "Unknown country". Not an unidentified country, mind you, but a country that is actually unknown. Without a doubt, I will be very busy for the next few weeks taking care of all the formalities involved in registering a new country with the United Nations, setting up diplomatic ties, and most importantly, finding a crisis that will require huge inflows of cash from the World Monetary Fund.

The first order of business, however, is giving the country a name. I am thinking of something that is morally uplifting, something that speaks of the pride and dignity of this country's great inhabitants, something that will motivate them to bring out the best in themselves and in others. I've narrowed it down to Brolandia or Brolostan. Which do you think I should go with?

It is unfortunate that I had to make this discovery in 2007. Nothing rhymes with seven, which rules out a nice little ditty, such as: 'In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue....'.

If these walls could talk

2007-01-29T18:28:00.000+01:00

Among the many architectural gems of Rome, our monastery is a ring made from a chewing gum wrapper. The reddish-brown brick structure looks like a part of the Aurelian wall that it lies near. The building is not old. It was built in the late 1800’s on land that the city of Rome acquired from a financially-strapped noble family. It was originally occupied by a group of cloistered nuns, but by the 1950’s the city had grown up around it and it became too noisy for the nuns. Our Order bought the building from them, added another story and a fourth wing to it.

Historically, the building is of no importance, but it does have one interesting story attached to it.

During the Nazi occupation of Rome, our Order’s monastery was located about four blocks away from our present location. Among the brothers living there at the time was a Frenchman who ran the printing presses for the Order’s publications. Between the scholarly journals and the General Minister’s letters to the Order, however, he was also printing fake baptismal certificates for the local Jews, despite the fact that the Gestapo were stationed a mere two blocks away from the monastery. When a Jewish family came to the door of the monastery to beg for food, the brother porter would get the names and ages of all the family members. The next time they came begging, they would get a sack of food with the baptismal certificates inside.

This went on until the Gestapo either became suspicious or were tipped off. They came to the door of the monastery one day demanding to conduct an inspection. The brother porter delayed them by claiming that only the guardian could give such permission. While calling the guardian, he also managed to warn the French brother, who ran to the printing presses, retrieved the plates and ran out a side door. He took refuge in the monastery of the cloistered sisters, our present-day monastery. He remained there a few days, even shaving his beard and donning the habit of the sisters, according to one account. He was eventually hidden inside the little truck that came each week to take out the sisters’ garbage. The truck took him to the outskirts of Rome, from where he made his way back to France.

For his efforts, he was included among the “Righteous Gentiles” by the government of Israel.

Legenda Fratrum, Pars XII

2007-01-29T18:12:00.000+01:00

This is not really about the brothers, but I heard it from a brother who heard it from a brother who heard it from an Irish supreme court judge, who admitted, 'I'm not sure this is true, but if it isn't, it ought to be'.

The young man being tried in a court case was loudly chewing a wad of gum, in evident disrespect for the judge and the court proceedings. The judge summoned a guard to the bench and instructed him, "Tell that young man to stop masticating." The guard walked over to the defendant and said, "Take your hands out of your pockets."

What? It's January already?

2007-01-28T12:28:00.000+01:00

I can't believe that it's been over a month since I last blogged. It seems like a mere five weeks since my last post. On the bright side, I've used the time to craft a clever, informative, well-honed post.

Of course not. It's the same ol' crap as always. Since all my regular readers have by now abandoned any hope of seeing a new post here, I can write about them with impunity. For instance, did you know that Pog buys the cheapest shampoo she can find? Moobs drinks milk out of the carton. I'm not kidding. Heather picks up bits of lettuce that have fallen on the floor and throws them in the salad bowl when no one is looking. I swear. Belgian Waffle sometimes put recylable plastics in with the non-recyclable garbage. Oh yes she does. Claudia once parked without putting a sufficient amount of money in the meter. Bobble has a stash of pictures showing dolls in skimpy lingerie and compromising positions—could I make this stuff up? Helen admitted that she still thinks of it as Bombay rather than Mumbai, to this very day.

Whew. I feel much better having gotten these sordid secrets off my chest. Especially since I know that the above-mentioned will be none the wiser.

Frater Firewall

2006-12-20T04:51:00.000+01:00

I'm back in the old cloister for a few weeks, completing the training of my replacement since I was not able to do so before my departure for Rome.

As I mentioned in one of my earlier posts, this cloister was recently made into a training center for brother wannabe's. To my chagrin, most of them are really nice fellows. Sure, they're a little overly pious, but life will eventually take care of that.

Their director (in the old days, he would have been called their "Master", but we are trying to impress people with our egalitarianism) takes his role quite seriously. One of the things he requested as we were getting the house prepared to accept the new students was an Internet filter to prevent them from entertaining themselves at certain types of sites--those having to do with porn, gambling, donkey races or Lutherans, for instance. I agreed (knowing, of course, that if I set it up, I would also know the way to get around it). After several delays, it was finally activated five months after I ordered it, when I was already in Rome. The next day, I began to get frantic e-mails from half of the brothers because they were unable to access their blogs or certain, very innocent websites. The tech was called back, and soon things were working better.

It appears that the first tech had misread the instructions, and had turned on all the filters except those for porn, gambling, usenet and lingerie sites. The second tech reversed the settings. My question is: why weren't the other half of the brothers complaining?

Random thoughts on traveling

2006-12-17T21:58:00.000+01:00

A security agent in the Newark airport continually announced: “By following a few simple rules, you’ll make the process go quicker and faster. (Leaving aside the use of adjectives instead of adverbs, does that mean the process will go twice as fast?)

While emptying his pockets at an airport security counter once, my cousin discovered four books of matches he forgot he had put there. The security guard told him he couldn't take them onboard. He admitted that he had forgotten they were there and didn’t mind giving them up. The guard gave two books back to him. My cousin gave him an inquisitive look so the guard said that it was permissible to have two books of matches. My cousin said, “So I can start a little fire?” He missed his flight that day.

The Atlantic Ocean is really wide.

Happy Feast Day

2006-12-08T16:27:00.000+01:00

Warning! This post contains frequest references to the Blessed Virgin Mary that may be offensive to non-papists. What you call "idolatry", we prefer to regard as "compensating for the obvious paternalism of our religion".

Today is the Feast of the Immaculate Conception—the "Immaculata" as the Italians call it—the commemoration of Mary's birth without original sin. In the Roman Catholic world, it is known as a holy day of obligation because you are required to attend Mass today. In the parts of the world where bishops have lowered expectations, the obligation has been transferred to the nearest Sunday.

Here in Italy, it is a public holiday. Now, the Italians, for the most part, stopped attending mass, Sunday or otherwise, decades ago. If they consider themselves Catholics at all, it is in a sort of cultural sense ["I was born into a Catholic family, and remember visiting a church once when I was little."]. They certainly don't believe the Pope or any other member of the hierarchy has any business telling them anything; they'll take their orders directly from God, thank you very much. Despite all this, there is absolutely no discussion in Italy about abolishing the public holiday of the Immaculata. In fact, the quickest way to ruin your political career in Italy is to suggest that since it was a papist invention meant to win over the hearts of people who were growing ever more disenchanted with the Papal States, perhaps it should not be celebrated. And that's just the Communist Party!

Here in the cloister, we celebrate the feast in several ways. First, we get a sleep-in. Instead of beginning our prayers at 6:15, we get to begin at a very decadent 7:00! The midday meal is also more abundant than usual, including some form of pastry and sparkling wine after the meal. Quite nice, really. Since the feast occurs on a Friday this year, it allowed our Guardian to declare a ponte—a venerable Italian custom in which the day between two feast days (in this case, the Immaculata and Sunday) is also treated as a feast day. That means another "sleep in" tomorrow morning. Hooray!

Legenda Fratrum, Pars XI

2006-12-05T15:46:00.000+01:00

Today, our fraternity had an official farewell dinner for three brothers who are returning to their respective provinces after having worked here many years. One was the Information Systems Manager for the past six years--a very competent, yet humble brother from Brazil. Another, from Poland, was the Porter, answering the door and phone (which is not a pleasant or easy job here, I can assure you). The third brother has been here for 16 years! For the last six years, he has been the Guardian of the fraternity. He is the cheerful, bubbly, extroverted type--the kind I like to call "Brother Fingernails-on-the-blackboard" (FOTB). I don't like to talk about brothers behind their backs, but I'll make an exception in this case.

The most common mutterance heard from me in the presence of FOTB has been, "Does he ever shut up?" Indeed, he appears to suffer from a chronic case of logorrhea. If he happens to be standing near you as you are talking to someone else, he even feels impelled to respond to the things you've said to the other person. Normally, this trait would be merely annoying, but it becomes dangerous when exhibited by the Guardian, for the Guardian, by tradition, must offer greetings to visitors, good wishes to brothers celebrating birthdays, and all sorts of other little speeches. Since he is constitutionally unable to make little speeches, he invariable says more than he should.

A recent case in point....

This summer, the fraternity held a cookout to thank all our lay staff members--cooks, cleaners and secretaries. FOTB felt obliged to thank each person publicly for his or her contribution. He thanked the secretaries for their typing and layouts. He thanked the cooks for their labors in the kitchen. He thanked the launderers for our clean linen and clothing. He finally reached the young woman whose job it was to clean the guest rooms and common bath rooms, to whom he said:

"Betty (not her real name), every time I go to the toilet, I think of you!"