Still reading Thomas Merton’s fine The Sign Of Jonas, and it continues to both inspire, humble, and hit where it truly hurts. Consider this entry from the 7th October 1949:

Spiritual joy depends on the cross. Unless we deny ourselves, we will find ourselves in everything and that is misery. As soon as we begin to deny ourselves, out of love for God, we begin to find God, at least obscurely. Since God is our joy, our joy is proportioned to our self-denial, for the love of God. I say: our self-denial for the love of God, because there are people who deny themselves for the love of themselves.

It is not complicated to live the spiritual life. But it is difficult. We are blind, and subject to a thousand illusions. We must expect to be making mistakes almost all the time. We must be content to fall repeatedly and to begin again to try and deny ourselves, for the love of God.

It is when we are angry at our own mistakes that we tend most of all to deny ourselves for the love of ourselves. We want to shake off that hateful thing that has humbled us. In our rush to escape the humiliation of our own mistakes, we run head first into the opposite error, seeking comfort and compensation. And so we spend our lives running back and forth from on attachment to another.

If that is all our self-denial amounts to, our mistakes will never help us.

The thing to do when you have made a mistake is not to give up doing what you were doing and start something altogether new, but to start over again with the thing you began badly and try, for the love of God, to do it well.

Makes you wonder what would happen if, at least to a small extent, people in this country would take Merton’s words to heart. A little less self-centeredness and narcissism, a little more self-denial. Talk about the kind of radical changes that would result.

Well it’s not really a “grove”, per se - maybe it’s more like an alcove or a grotto? - but one of the nicer little areas we’ve created on our property is what I call my prayer grove. It’s situated between the west side of the front of our house and a wall that begins our neighbor’s east yard. The prior owners had the good sense to plant two large beautiful red bougainvilleas that, when we first came here, filled the entire corner. Two years ago, I got the inspiration to turn it into something a little more than that, and it’s become my own little prayer/meditation area.

It’s amazing how a simple bench, a few religious items, a table, and a variety of stone products can do to make an area cozy, peaceful, and, yes, holy. And it truly is holy ground - last Spring, after Carmelo our landscaper did his magic trimming and I put everything in place, I consecrated the area with holy water from the Byzantine Catholic church up the street. And if it came from a Byzantine Catholic parish - I mean, you know its gotta be holy!

Here’s the view from the bench where I sit and do my morning prayers whenever I can. Sundays are the easiest, in between making coffee and feeding the rabbits, and calling my folks to see how they’re doing. Weekdays are a little tougher - here on Pacific Daylight Time, my company’s workday is well under way by the time morning coffee is made. One of these days I’ll learn to get my lazy ass out of bed 45 minutes earlier and hit the prayer grove before the rabbits demand my attention. God only asks that I love Him with all my heart, mind, and spirit (Mark 12:30). Unfortunately, that that kind of reverential love seems all too often reserved for me and my needs alone.

The best prayer offices come from the monastic breviary I got during one of my retreats at Holy Cross Monastery in West Park, New York. They follow the Benedictine tradition and I enjoy using their Matins as the structure for my morning prayers. A good balanced office with prayers, Old and New Testament readings, and Psalms that I like to chant to myself.

One of our neighbors came by one morning while I was doing my prayers and said she was really impressed that one of her neighbors would set up a “shrine” (her words) in our neighborhood, and asked me if she could use it from time to time. I said sure. (I don’t know if she has…)

One good thing about having my prayer grove in the front of the house is that, whenever the Mormons or the Jehovah’s Witnesses come by and try to convert me, I can always point to the prayer grove and politely decline. It always seems to work.

This is the best of the year for doing morning prayers inside the prayer grove. The bougainvillea are out big, but not so much that they really start to assert their space - that will come in a few weeks! And when there’s a soft breeze, my neighbors’ king palms make a beautiful whooshing sound as they stir, reminding me of how God speaks to us - maybe sometime it’s as loud as a clap of thunder, but more often than not as a whisper from the deep recesses of our souls. The morning sun filling the area with its warmth, the birds chirping, the king palms stirring - it may be just a humble prayer grove, but it’s a little sanctuary in the cathedral that is God’s creation.

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Pool temp: 91 degrees

Thomas Merton’s The Sign of Jonas continues to astound, impress, and humble. I read his words, and there seems to be so much our souls have in common - the intense desire to live out our lives in solitude, yet the complete incapability of attaining this because of our selfish wants, needs and desires constantly getting in the way. The eternally common and human battle between body and soul. To overcome is what makes a sinner a saint, I guess.

On April 25, 1948 he wrote this:

The more selfish you are, the more involved life becomes. As usual I have to check my appetite for books and work and keep close to God in prayer. Which is what He wants.

It could easily be something my soul desires from me, except rather than books it’s all kinds of words, thoughts, and actions that involve worldly desires and self-gratification. God expects nothing from us except for us to love Him as He loves us. And that means checking your attitude and selfish wants and desires at the door, if only for a few minutes a day. Why do I find that so hard?

Today I’ll be flying to Atlanta and escape the searing heat. You can really tell out here the difference between, say 98-99 degrees and a 106-107. Energy flags, the birds get less active, you can almost feel the potted plants sighing under the solar onslaught. But that’s what you have to expect when you live in the desert.

Makes me wonder how the Desert Fathers dit it. Perhaps their fervor for serving God and their love of Christ provided their own form of spiritual air conditioning.

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Pool temp: 87 degrees

Lots of people don’t know how nice a guy I am. Oh sure, I have mega issues with the Obama administration, but then again, I would have those kinds of issues with anyone who is nothing but an empty-shirt idealogue hell-bent on destroying the country I happen to live in - warts and all. It’s all about the “C” word - no, you silly goose, it’s not the dude’s color, but his competence I’m most concerned about. Of which, BTW, he has yet to show me any evidence of.

But I digress.

And some might also say that, because I’m fully supportive of the recent legislation enacted by the Arizona legislature to identify and prosecute those who are here illegally, I’m against everything that is and could be from south of our border. Again, nothing could be further from the truth. I truly love the Mexican culture, it’s food, art, religious practices, architecture, and music, and have always found myself comfortable with and around those who have come here from south of the border to make their own success story here in the U.S. My preference is simply that our nation’s laws be upheld and enforced.

I only write this because today I went to my first Food City supermarket. Amongst the locals, Food City is, to be blunt, where the Mexicans shop. The Fry’s, Safeways, and Fresh & Easy chains are (for lack of a better term), well, not. Go to the more affluent towns of Gilbert, Chandler, Tempe, etc. around here and you’ll find any number of Fry’s, Safeways, or Fresh & Easys. Go to Mesa or the older parts of Phoenix where everything is more blue-collar, and there you’ll find the Food Citys. And given the reality of who the blue-collar workers are around these parts, the Food Citys are well known for their selection of Mexican goods and produce.

As it turns out, my sister-in-law Tam’s apartment in Mesa is right down the street from a Food City, and since we both had grocery shopping to do, we decided to join forces. What an interesting experience it was! Just entering the parking lot on this Mother’s Day was like entering a whole ‘nother world and cultural experience. On the sidewalk, flowers, hot dogs, and fresh tortillas were being sold and served. Inside, a whole aisle of Mexican produce, spices, and chiles I never even knew existed. In the meat section, cow parts I never even knew people bought (let’s leave it at that!) and all kinds of interesting pork products I’d never find at my local Fry’s. And, even better, a shopping experience accompanied by traditional Mexican music played above - it sure beat the recycled ’70s and ’80s pop crap I have to endure whenever I do my regular shopping at Fry’s. I’m sorry, but grocery shopping should never be done - at any time - to U2, Bonnie Tyler, Meatloaf, and A Flock of Seagulls.

Oh sure, when it comes to pure selection Food City can’t hold a candle to my Fry’s - the FC folks know their clientele and simply don’t have the same footprint for selection as my Fry’s does. But I found my grocery shopping experience there made much more comfortable and enjoyable amongst the Mexican families who were shopping along with Tam and me there today. Maybe I find them a little more down to earth, a little less spoiled and demanding than the largely middle-class and above folks that frequent the Fry’s. I definitely found the whole cultural experience more vibrant and family-traditional. And the fact you get get six fresh flour tortillas with any take-home rotisserie chicken is hard to beat.

So I was in a good mood when I got to the check-out register. There, a young girl no more than ten was trying to buy a Mother’s Day card. She had a $5 bill, and the card, with tax, came to $5.39. Not yet fully versed in this country’s willingness and ability to tax freakin’ everything that federal, state, local, and county government can get its grimy hands on, the poor girl was stressing out over what to do. I told her, “don’t worry honey - you just make your mom happy, I’ll pay for the card.” Her eyes lit up and she said, “Gracias, senor.” Calling upon my best 8th grade Spanish from Mrs. Basile’s class, I replied, “De nada, mi querido”.

So there you have it. A little girl made happy, and an interesting time had by all. The rotisserie chicken subsequently became the base of a wonderful Mexican tortilla soup, and the six flour tortillas were a wonderful accompanyment.

Just call The Great White Shank, “Mr. Multicultural”.

Then Jesus came from Galilee to the Jordan to be baptized by John.
But John tried to deter him, saying, “I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?”
Jesus replied, “Let it be so now; it is proper for us to do this to fulfill all righteousness.” Then John consented.
As soon as Jesus was baptized, he went up out of the water. At that moment heaven was opened, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and lighting on him.
And a voice from heaven said, “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.” — Mt. 3: 13-17

Well, it wasn’t anything like that today at St. Mary Magdalene, where I was formally received into the Roman Catholic Church. No heavenly parting of the clouds, no angels ascending or descending or dancing on the head of a pin, no voices from above, nothing like that.

Not that I expected anything like that, mind you.

But it was, nevertheless, a moving and splendid occasion. And it was all over in five minutes. After Fr. Greg’s homily, my name was called, and, along with seven other candidates, we were prayed over by Fr. Greg, our sponsors, and the whole congregation. Then each of us were anointed with holy oil, and voila!, welcome to your new lives as Roman Catholics. Later on, I received Eucharist just like everyone else, waiting in line for Jesus’ Body and Blood to be given by two female Eucharistic ministers, and that was it.

And that’s the way I always wanted it to be. No muss, no fuss, just the next step in my spiritual journey beginning like my fellow candidates. The beauty of today’s occasion was in how very ordinary, in its own typical extraordinary way, it all was. I was just a part of a faith community coming together before the Lord, bringing all our various lives, personal stories, wants, needs, desires, sins, and celebrations just as millions of others have done for two millennia. The only difference being, this time, their numbers were increased by eight souls who sought only to come home to Rome, the Church of Peter, and Paul, and all the apostles, and all the fundamental and foundational sacramental traditions and teachings that have been taught, followed, ignored, debated, and rigorously defended since them in any number of ways, to take and receive the Real Presence of the Lord’s Body and Blood for the very first time.

It was humbling, exciting, and exhilarating to have finally taken that step. Now, on with the rest of my life, wherever and however that might lead.

Today was “Preparation Day” in terms of getting all of us candidates for reception into the Roman Catholic Church ready for tomorrow (Sunday). Two dozen of us gathered for two hours of prayer, meditation, and no small amount of sharing, and everybody (I think) is just at the point where we say, enough already, let’s get on with it!

There was, however, a nice closing to today’s session: all of us gathered around a table containing a large basin of water and many small cruets of water, for everyone there. We were then asked to pour the contents of one of the cruets into the basin, signifying the different religious traditions, backgrounds, and life experiences we were bringing with us to the Roman Catholic Church. The water was then blessed, and we were then asked to dip our cruets back into the water and take it home with us as a reminder of this special occasion.

Sometime tomorrow around 10 AM AZ / Pacific Daylight Time I will no longer be an Episcopalian, I will be a Roman Catholic. A new beginning. A new life. Blessed be God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, and blessed be His Kingdom now and forever. Amen!

In doing so, I will have forsaken and cast aside forever the Christian tradition I was baptized into and raised; a Church that is virtually unrecognizable in terms of its doctrine and traditional teaching and practice from that I not just grew up in, but pursued ordination to the priesthood only fifteen years ago. I leave a Church that is not just hemorrhaging membership, but, more importantly, hemorrhaging its very soul and future. I leave a Church whose devoted laity has been horribly disserved by apostate leaders at the national and diocesan level who long ago traded two thousand years of Christian doctrine, traditions, and teachings in favor of an alternative triune god called “acceptance, tolerance and adversity”. I damn those leaders for reducing a once rich and vital branch of Christianity to irrelevance, ridicule and a slow, agonizing death. And for what? To make gays, lesbians, and transsexuals feel good about the sexual and lifestyle changes they have made in their lives by ordaining as priests and bishops those like them? How pathetic.

But all that’s in the past. You’ll never hear another word from me about the Episcopal Church and its rapid and assured disintegration, for those concerns - and that life - is all in the past. I can only wish all the family and friends I leave behind in that tradition my best wishes, thoughts, and prayers - the road ahead is not going to be pretty.

Interestingly enough, over the past two years I’ve come to realize all the crap going on in the Episcopal Church actually has very little to do with the step I am taking tomorrow. Does it in some way enter into the equation? Of course; it would be disingenuous on my part to say otherwise. But the fact is, I’m not leaving the Episcopal Church as much as I am joining the Roman Catholic Church and the tradition and faith lived out through Henri Nouwen, Thomas Merton, St. John of the Cross (whose Christian name I will be taking upon my reception into the Roman Catholic Church, BTW), John Henry Newman, Dorothy Day, Scott Hahn, and Mother Angelica, all of which have played an influential and formitive role in my own spiritual development and growth these past 15+ years. These giants (what other word fits?) have, in their own very special ways, molded and shaped my theology and spirituality to the point where Anglicanism, even with all its reverential beauty and contributions to Christianity over the past five hundred years, no longer had any relevance, meaning, or attraction to me.

As a Roman Catholic, I freely and willingly embrace a Church not without its own significant amount of problems, but thank God they at least know what they fundamentally believe and teach: it’s far easier for an organization to deal with the troubling issues it faces when it knows what it believes and how it is supposed to live out those beliefs. As a Roman Catholic, I begin a new phase in a life journey I know not why I’ve been led to or even how it will end. But that’s OK.

After no small amount of time, and no small amount of prayer, contemplation, and internal debate, the time has come. I’m heading for home. I’ll tell y’all about it tomorrow. Please keep me in your prayers.

Today’s post will have to be a quick one because of work and my final RCIA class before I’m received into the Roman Catholic Church two weeks’ hence. I’ve linked to this fine article by Walter Russell Mead in The American Interest Online (Hat tip: Instapundit) about the precarious state of today’s Episcopal Church, something I hadn’t planned to blog about again, but in this case, I felt I needed to since Mead’s column ties in rather nicely with this post from two weeks ago.

A must read for Episcopalians everywhere.

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Pool temp: 70 degrees!

It’s Easter, the Feast of the Resurrection! Like that old Anglican chestnut begins, “Welcome happy morning, age to age shall say…”.

Deacon Keith Fournier sums up the Church’s beliefs and teachings, and the joy of this day:

The tomb is empty. Death could not contain the One who poured Himself out in Love. The light floods the once dark cave and fills the entire world with hope. The debt has been paid, the last enemy death has been defeated, hell has been conquered, the captives have been liberated, love has triumphed and heavens gates have been opened wide. He is Alive and all those who stand at the Altar of the Cross, believing in His promise, shall live forever in Him.

Alleluia, Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed! ALLELUIA!

Happy Easter to everyone from all the Goodboys and Goodboys Nation weblog!

Holy Saturday is my favorite day of the Church Year. There is this breathless vacuum that exists beween the devastating sadness of Good Friday and the exhilarating joy of Easter, that sacred space between death and life, hopeless and hope, sin and redemption. Our eyes strain to see once again the first reassuring signs that God truly did - and does - love us so much that He would take our nature and the weight of all of our sinfulness and depravity, and offer His Begotten Son to die on the Cross to overcome the forces of death and sin once and for all - for you, for me, for everyone.

If there is any time in recent memory where this kind of faith and understanding is needed I can’t remember it. You have,of course, the neverending cycles of war, poverty, and suffering, but this year during the most holytime of the Church Year the headlines are filled with the latest revelations of how various leaders of the Roman Catholic Church aided and abetted the systematic abuse of children across Europe over the past several decades, same as morethan a decade ago in the U.S. It’s as puzzling to me as it is to thousands upon thousands of Catholics why the Vatican and its leaders, in the interest of full disclosure, doesn’t come out and wipe the slate clean by admitting what it did and when, release all the info they have - including names and dates - and discipline everyone involved. Everyone.

It would be nice if the Church leaders were able to echo Christ’s last words as he hung beaten, bloody, and dying on a cross: “Father forgive them, they know not what they do”, but in this case I think a lot of people knew exactly what people were doing (and not doing), allowing this scandal to have risen to the level it has. The Church thus far seems not to have gotten the message, and the pathetic excuses of some show an institutional tone-deafness that will simply not pass muster in a day and age wherethe Vatican can just bulldoze its message across an uninformed populace. People are speaking out, and the more the Church’s leadership delays what I think it knows deep down what it needs to do, it’s only going to get worse.

I know what you’re asking, because my Goodboys friends asked the same thing of me yesterday - Great White Shank, how can you even think of becoming a Roman Catholic with this kind of thing going on in they very church you plan on being received into just three weeks from now?

I’ll admit, this isn’t something I haven’t thought of myself; as I’ve said before in this very forum, I’ve made this decision with my eyes wide open, and not unaware of what’s going on around me. And any Roman Catholic with half a brain should be doing the same thing. I can’t speak for others - both Bill O’Reilly and Elizabeth Scalia have articulated their reasons in a far more eloquent way than I could ever do, but here is my two cents’ worth:

St. Paul once wrote that everyone needs to work out their own salvation with fear and trembling (Phil 2:12), and I have always taken those words to mean that, in the end, we all have choices to make, in a world where choices can be very difficult. The doctrine of free will, right? For me, my soul thirsts for the Real Presence of Christ in the Holy Eucharist,my heart embraces the hard and wonderful teachings of Jesus in John 6:53-56:

Jesus said to them, “I tell you the truth, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up at the last day. For my flesh is real food and my blood is real drink. Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me, and I in him.”

…and the Roman Catholic Church’s teachings and beliefs on this are clear, unabashed, and not subject to debate or negotiation. It doesn’t lose sleep over whether you believe this teaching or not, and if you don’t that’s OK, there are plenty of other faiths and religions where you can go. Roman Catholicism is not for everyone, I’ll be the first to admit that. Like Jesus’ disciples replied to Him upon hearing his words: “This is a hard teaching. Who can accept it?”

And that’s where it comes down to choices. Most certainly, the Church has, and continues to make, grevious mistakes in its practices and the way its human practicioners live out their lives and faith, but is that any different from you or I? Most surely, most of us have not, and do not, abuse children, but that doesn’t mean we all don’t find our own little comfortable and convenient ways of crucifying Christ in our daily lives. We may not abuse women, but that may not stop us from frequenting pornographic websites on the Internet that do; we may not abuse children, but we turn our backs on abused women and children every day in the choices we make when it comes to spending our money and time.

Like my friend and mentor Fr. Hendy Webb once began a sermon on Good Friday several years ago, “What have you done to crucify Christ today?”

I hope you see where I’m going here. We’re all pathetic and depraved sinners in God’s eyes. As well as we know our shortcomings as human beings, as our Creator God knows this in ourselves far more than we ever could. And just because a Church has ordained you as a priest doesn’t make you Christ Himself, doesn’t somehow silicone coat and protect you from your darkest impulses and the dragons in your dreams. I wish it were true, but let’s all grow up. Even the Pope goes to weekly confession, and I’m sure - like you and I - he needs it.

And that’s where I’m going with this on this Holy Saturday - we all, Church and non-church, religious and non-religious, saints and sinners, walk in lives dwarfed by the shadow of the Cross. We can choose, if we wish, to let the actions of any institution, even the Roman Catholic Church, distract our eyes from the Cross, but it always there. To thirst for the light amidst the darkness is not a Roman Catholic thing, it is the essence of our very humanity. You may not like your job, your family, your country, the human race you belong to, and yes, your church and how it has lived out its traditions and teachings over the past two thousand years, but you can’t take the easy way out. You still have a choice to make. And I’ve made mine.

In the end, we all walk in the darkness, thirsting for the light. A better day. A better place. A more peaceful world. A world without war, poverty, suffering, hunger, strife, and the abuse of human beings in every way, manner, shape, and form. Sounds heavenly, doesn’t it? And that’s the only place you’ll fine it. because it ain’t gonna happen here anytime soon. But that doesn’t mean we can’t try.

There it is, the Cross again. You can’t avoid it. We all walk in its shadow. And in all its failures and abuses over two thousand years, the closest my soul can get to the true light of Christ is through the Roman Catholic Church, its sacraments, teachings, and traditions. It ain’t perfect - far from it - but frankly, neither am I. And neither are you. So we all make our choices and we live with them with a ‘God go with you’. My prayer for all of us this holy day.

And that’s the very essence of Holy Saturday.

We’re in the middle of the Triduum, the most holy days of the year for Roman Catholics and most mainline Protestants. Commemorating Jesus’ last days on earth - the Last Supper, his institution of the Holy Eucharist, and his suffering, death, and burial, the Triduum serves not just as a powerful reminder of God’s Son taking upon Himself the role of Savior and Redeemer of the world, but a healthy reminder that, in the words of that wonderful Anglican collect, he “went not up to joy before he suffered pain”. Our souls desperately want to experience that Easter morning joy and celebration, but there is some very untidy and distasteful business that has to be taken care of first.

Normally, this is my favorite time of the Church Year; it’s usually very emotional and meaningful to me. Not just because of all the memories Holy Week recalls from my childhood, but how it has served as a kind of the yardstick by which I have gauged my spiritual development - or lack thereof - since my conversion experience 17 years ago. This year, however, preparing to leave the Episcopal Church and just weeks away from being received into the Roman Catholic faith, I find myself in a strange purgatory and feeling rather detached from everything.

While driving home tonight I passed my old Episcopal church, St. Anne’s, and St. Anthony’s Roman Catholic Church just down the street from St. Anne’s. Seeing the parking areas for both churches filled with parishoners attending Holy (also called Maundy) Thursday services brought about a strange feeling in me. I didn’t feel as if I belonged in either place - that if I had stopped into either I’d feel like an intruder, an outsider, someone who didn’t quite fit in. It didn’t make me feel sad, it was more odd than anything else.

Maybe it’s because of the bizarre, disheartening Palm Sunday experience at Christ Church, Somerville last week. Maybe it’s because, rather than attending a Great Vigil of Easter service on Saturday night - my very favorite of all services in the Church Year - I’ll be attending a Goodboys friend’s wedding down the Cape. Away from my RC parish and my Episcopal Church parish for Easter Sunday, the whole week seems kind of lost to me.

But that’s OK, I know this can be a time of inner meditation and contemplation about the spiritual journey I have taken that has brought me to this quirky crossroad, and the one that lies ahead of me, whatever form that might take. Christ’s suffering, death, burial, and resurrection from the dead might not be experienced communally this year, but thatdoesn’t mean it loses any of its meaning or poignancy; it’s just experienced in a different way.

Right now it seems I’m on the outside looking in, but sometimes there are times and circumstances you simply have to go through alone, trusting that, if it be God’s will, you’ll persevere to better days that lie ahead. And, better yet, live to look back on it as something you simply had to go through to get where you are going, wherever that might be.