President Medvedev of Russia was hailed as a goddess during an official visit to a Buddhist monastery in eastern Siberia.
During the first trip in 16 years to the remote Ivolginsky monastery in Buryatia by a head of state, he was shown a statue of the White Tara, a seven-eyed, female figure in the Buddhist pantheon, whose embodiment he is believed to be, it was reported.
The spiritual leader of the monastery, Pandito Khambo Lama Damba Ayusheyev, said when asked about the president’s spiritual significance: “It’s very hard to understand this for non-Buddhists and even for some Buddhists too.”
WHEREAS I have it from a reliable source that in parish churches all across the fruited plain, men and women are gathering together and resurrecting the stirring old hymn "Faith of Our Fathers," except now, after the first verse in the interest of familial harmony adding a second heretofore unwarbled stanza beginning "Faith of Our Mothers...", and a third a bird told me beginning "Faith of our Sisters and Brothers too...":
It is with soaring hopes and great confidence of getting a footnote in the next USCCB or CCCB approved hymnal I submit hereby for the approval of the sensus fidei my proposal for the new fourth verse:
Faith of my uncle, hangin' still, In spite of drunken pranks that linger, O how my heart beat high with joy, Whene'er I pulled that glorious finger!
Make no mistake: the odd ice-cream headache is almost certainly nothing to worry about. But too many people continue to eat ice cream too quickly suffering recurring ice-cream headaches unaware that they could be signs of a more serious ice-cream malady: ice-cream meningitis perhaps or, more seriously, an ice-cream aneurism; even ice-cream cancer.
My great-uncle--never a sick day in his life--dropped dead at 81 from an ice-cream stroke at the TCBY.
Commenting on the outcry from Christians over some recent end-of-life cases in which the question of euthanasia arose, my atheist friend puzzles at:
...this fervor com[ing] from one who professes to believe in life-after-death. If there really is life after death (eternal life, in fact), why is it important to prolong the suffering career of the cancer-ridden body in this fallen world? To put it another way: atheists, who believe that this earthly life is the only life there is, might be forgiven for clinging to it at all costs. Yet, oddly enough, atheists are generally OK with euthanasia and physician-assisted suicide, while it's the supposedly religious people who are the clingers.
I think he asks a good question. At its most stark it is for Catholics (and any who believes in sacramental Baptism): why don't you just douse the forehead then slit the throat avoiding for him so fortunate a vale of tears in favor of immediate beatific bliss and everlasting. But this is to take the atheist's barren world view as our own—albeit with a little heaven tacked on the end—discounting, among many other blandishments of a life of grace, the uplifting dynamic of an ongoing community of man whence rises a Communion of Saints—the reason why any man's death diminished, say, Donne (as he seems to have thought).
To shed the light of a mere burning match on the Christian's strange position we look first at the atheist's, his perfectly reasonable attitude based on two conceits on his part. The first is the idea that he can at a moment in time effectively plot the arc of his future existence and determine whether its integral is positive or negative. It is highly questionable a notion at each step, not the least insoluble term being how to calibrate existential nothingness at our worldly zero. The second, implicit in the first, is the tenet that suffering is always of negative value and this second notion is simply—certainly in terms of the person whose God came to earth to suffer, but also empirically, if we are honest—an error.
Of course I'm talking about an idealized atheist, and when we turn back to the Christians in these news stories the problem of explaining their behavior when facing death is made many times more difficult by the fact that they (and we) are none of them (or us) ideal Christians but are by and large as infected as anyone by the spirit of the post-Christian age in which we are immersed; an age in which peculiarly the ontological if not the eschatological assumptions of the atheist hold sway, but animated by a spirit not at all unlike that which in all ages gains its purchase in original sin. In short, our motives are mixed and when any one does cling to life at all costs (especially at the cost of others’ lives), he does evil. But anyone may fear death as your less-than-ideal atheist also does along with the imperfect Christian, and it is only in folly that the pure and shining, the fearless atheist specimen looks down on such a ragged and craven Christian, scoffing that for the Christian death is—or need be—but a play-acting scene (say, I’ll just lie down here and close my eyes till the end of Act II, then we’ll all go to the wrap party and have a real good time).
This is false. Death, we know well, is the radical disintegration of the body and from it its form the soul. It entails real and utter surrender of oneself to a blackness, perhaps to forgetfulness, and no one knows, beyond an obscure and remote promise, what for himself lies beyond it—even more: what strange and fiery form the self itself may take—and that is a fearful thing. Indeed, the Christian must acknowledge that, again for him, it might be much worse than oblivion. But it must be just so else the Christian concede all love and sacrifice and all hope and thanksgiving are but play-acting exercises as well (say, I’ll just {wink} deposit my pocket change here with this beggar assured that later on I can withdraw it in golden flag—with interest).
Further, it must be remembered that for us death is the novelty, the unnatural thing we were not designed for but rather a punishment for our sins, itself symbolizing, even aping the end of our self willed separation from God. In that, but for Christ's sweet promise, death is an enemy forsooth to be hated and feared. But to unite ourselves truly to that promise and extract all its sweetness requires from us the real love that lies in self-sacrifice so profound that it is to our fallen natures like death before death, and so again, poor Christians, we poor Christians are afraid.
But Christian is the word not so much for what we are but for what we aspire to be, so while one may well fairly judge Christians harshly as lacking the courageof their convictions (though he must grant they are not easy convictions to live up to), better judge Christianity on its own terms. The true Christian view of death begins with Christ. The saints recall His seven last words with great reverence and close attention and are moved to face their own death with the equanimity of St Stephen who begged for the lives only of his executioners. In a modern hospital setting our example is St Gianna Molla. She was no clinger. If the difference between them and us is the Hope born of a plenitude of Grace—which Grace engenders also a more perfect Love—then surely these saints both of unconquerable courage and of a Love most potently expressed in mercy will be in favor of assisted suicide?
Of course the answer, finally, is no, for the saint rejects not only the first two assumptions of the suicide enthusiast, but also even more profoundly the third error of the atheist—the presumption that one can own a life (either ones own in the case of suicide or that of another in the case of euthanasia). To frame it thus is to recognize the hollowness of the question, If there really is life after death, why is it important to prolong the suffering career of the cancer-ridden body in this fallen world?for to equate on one hand doing all we can to alleviate the physical and psychological suffering of the dying—short of stealing something literally of inestimable value and disposing of it as literally worth less than nothing—with, on the other, purposely prolonging (what we arrogantly suppose to be: needless) suffering, is to embrace wholesale all three of the atheist’s errors—that he knows what life and death are (and they are reductive), that he understands suffering (and it is uniformly negative) and that it’s his choice to make (with or without good data). The first two are manifestly false to anyone on a moment’s reflection. While the error in the third may only be grasped by a certain type of theist, the ends of its implications in all facets of life will be dire. But that is a whole other discussion.
But who actually says, "incredible claims require incredible evidence?" It makes no sense. Incredible claims certainly require credible evidence, while credible claims as far as they require evidence at all must also rely on credible evidence. Incredible evidence can even cast doubt on credible claims to say nothing of incredible claims.
I have heard that extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence. This makes a certain amount of sense. For example a person making the claim that God does not exist would be required to furnish credible evidence, yes, but extraordinary evidence also. Indeed: if there were ordinary (credible) evidence that God does not exist the matter would already have been disposed of.
If supporters of the CanadianMuseum of Human Rights are having qualms about building over hypothetical ancient graves they should be many times more deeply ashamed building it on the graves of the very real 100,000 aborted children per year. The notion of any such thing as human rights in Canada is only a sad joke until the humanity of the innocent unborn is addressed.
In a Monday proclamation, President Barack Obama declared June 2009 to be Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Pride Month.
I'd like to suggest, to give the rest of us a bit of a break, that the next two warm summer months be declared LGBT Sloth Month and LGBT Gluttony Month. Needless to say, I'm not looking forward to LGBT Wrath Month to say nothing of LGBT Lust Month
Volver (Returning(?)) is an interesting film by director Pedro Almodóvar starring Penelope Cruz as Raimunda a sister, a mother, a niece, a would-be restaurateur and the daughter of a mischievous ghost. Perhaps I didn't "read" the (Spanish-language) film properly, but the early action in the film coupled with the prevalent theme of returning (from the dead) seemed to promise the viewer a tragic denouement, even as the film's wry humor quite endearingly balances out its darker themes of death, rape and insanity. But when one minor character stubbornly remains quite frozen, the circle is broken and the promise fizzles. I would have given three stars, but I bumped it to four based solely on Raimunda's climactic performance in the restaurant of the title song. The voice double is Estrella Morente: be sure to listen to this longer version in HQ.
The first Buddhist Monk I ever saw close up—it was years ago—was asleep in a departure lounge in the DorvalAirport (now the Trudeau) in Montréal. He was a large man and larger than life in his vivid orange robes; but what my wife and I really noticed was his shoes: a simply beautiful pair of brown brogues that shone like the sun. They must have cost him at least $300—perhaps much more, I dunno—at a time when I had never spent more than fifty bucks for a pair of shoes. They were too stunning even to provoke envy—or worse: some ugly self-righteous attitude of superiority over the seeming extravagance of such a purchase by one who ostensibly seeks detachment—just deep admiration.
{knock knock} "Why, Billie Joe, I do declare. Come on in. Take a chair.... Uh... How are you?" "Very well, thanks--though from its tone your quaery would appear to be other than a mere social pleasantry seeming--as it does to me--to be fraught with an unwonted concern I might be otherwise. Hmm?" "Well, uh, since you ask, er, um... I had heard incidentally that you had, that is to say you may have... I might say, flung--yourself from--from the bridge... the uh..." "the...?" "yes, the Tallahatchie Bridge... you're smiling. Why?" "Ho, ho, ho. Indeed... Yes, I did plummet from a certain venerable edifice spanning that incongruously named body of water-- directly into said body of water, I might add. Indeed, as I say, into the deepest part. Though, I must say, not deep enough to save my feet to the ankle from being plunged into the cool muck on the bottom... albeit to my great delight." "But... then... your suici--" "Greatly exaggerated, yes. Gosh, the Tallahatchie bridge is not exactly Mississippi's Golden Gate. It can't be six meters from deck to water's surface. Honestly. It was a lark" "Ah. Of course. But then, you never did have a lick o sense, Billie Joe McAllister. Have some cake?" "{Roaring} Ho, ho, ho, ho. Guilty as charged, my friend. And yes, indeed. I don't mind if I do."
{later}
"Um, it's just that, you know, after our throwing that thing off the bridge... you know, the..." "Ah. I had forgotten about that. Yes, I can see now why you might have been concerned, and for that I certainly do apologize."
Bless me Father (and by the way, Father, thanks for clearing all the boxes and exercise equipment out of the confessional--shame this comfy chair isn't used more often), for I have sinned. It is one year since my last confession. These are my sins. Um... I prayed the rosary once during mass, and ... um... that's all I can think of, forgive me, Father.
Next time you're sore all over as a result of repeated irrational attacks of overwhelming terror AND you're hankering for the marvelous taste sensation of warm maple syrup, just fix yourself some panic-aches.
An onion and lots of celery chopped fine, sautéed in olive oil. Added S&P, ½ tsp of ground thyme and a dash nutmeg. Simmered for an hour and a half with a stock from the carcass of Sunday's roast chicken. Puréed. Served with more S&P and a dollop of heavy cream.
Birds have to breathe very quickly and in copious amounts to produce enough energy for flight. That is why when ever they start on a journey their friends tell them, "Beak Airful."
The writer, conflating two issues better discussed separately, is wrong on both.
On contraception the position of the Church is well known. She rightly reasons that the spiritual harm it causes outweighs any perceived good; the aging population and pornographic pop-culture of a society in the throes of sexual anomie a mere forty-five years after the inception of the sexual revolution bear this out.
On AIDS prevention we need only compare infection rates in the Philippines and Thailand or in Uganda and Swaziland to discover that the Pope is right again. In each case the latter country aggressively pursued a policy promoting condoms ending with an infection rate more than five times that of the former. The reason which escapes the writer is simple. Public promotion of condoms encourages irresponsible promiscuity at rates which dwarf the sorry effectiveness rate of condoms in preventing AIDS.
I've taken up cooking. This is what I cooked on the weekend.
Saturday:
Stir fried chicken with onions, noodles and black bean sauce. Other ingredients included snap peas, green pepper, diced carrots and fish sauce.
Sunday:
Roast chicken stuffed with lemon, carrots and celery rubbed with lemon, olive oil and sage.
Mashed Potatoes with lemon butter
Gently steamed (al dente) broccoli with butter.
Greek salad (English cucumber, small sweet tomatoes, red onion, Canadian feta, and Kalamata olives with a dressing of extra virgin olive oil, lemon and lime juices, salt, pepper, sugar, mustard and oregano)
For dinner on Monday: Red Lentil and Cauliflower Curry. Other ingredients included onion, garlic, spinach, and peas as well as minced ginger, cumin, turmeric, ground mustard seed, and cayenne pepper.
If doctors had never discovered how to do abortions, then ad0ption agencies could just offer an extra service. You could fill out a form when you hand over your neonate, checking box one if you prefer a gay adoption, box two if you prefer we just kill it for you, or box three if you've no preference.
