Patum Peperium

Media Malpractice

Ex Ossibus

Father M.

 

 

This past January 22^nd, over three hundred thousand people gathered for the March for Life to commemorate the insidious 1973 Roe v. Wade decision which codified infanticide as an acceptable law.  Since the legalization of abortion we have butchered eighty million innocent human beings.  The crowd was so vast and so tight that during the rally which preceded the March it took me over an hour to go two blocks. 

The March for Life is not only a Catholic event.  There are people from a variety of religious professions and the March itself actually begins when a rabbi blows a Horn of Atonement.  The Catholics are the most numerous, however, and capacity and overflow Masses are held all over town to accommodate all the marchers.  Thousands of people including several Cardinals and bishops as well as hundreds of priests gathered the night before at the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception in Washington for the annual Vigil Mass for Life.  Most prominent in these events are the thousands upon thousands of young people in high school and college who come to let their voices be heard. 

Despite the fact that this is, nearly every year, the largest protest in the Capital City the event garners minimal publicity.  Annually, the Washington Post and several similar left-wing, mainstream media outlets will give the event minimum coverage and perform the usual media malpractice of announcing that, “both sides of the abortion debate gathered in Washington today” despite the fact there were hundreds of thousands of Pro-Life demonstrators and a handful of abortion advocates.  Needless to say, the photos are well selected to show the handful of “Keep Abortion Legal” signs to the best advantage.

The video below illustrates the powerful discrepancy between the truth and what the media reports.

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"It Is With Great Joy That My Husband, Paul, And I Met With His Holiness, Pope Benedict XVI Today,"

Ex Ossibus

Father M.

Nancy Pelosi in earlier and more carefree days.

 

Nancy Pelosi was reminded yesterday by Pope Benedict  XVI of the Natural Law, the dignity of the human person and the sanctity of Human Life at their Vatican meeting.  Pelosi, who inaccurately describes herself as an “ardent Catholic” is really nothing more than a faithless conduit for the opinions of Planned Parenthood and other well-paying pro-abortion groups.  Her alleged faith is little more than a façade to give her a thin veneer of faith and values to her continued anti-life and anti-family voting record. She is really only a puppet for the anti-life forces in Washington and San Francisco who cannot think for herself so I can’t really fault her for her continual ignorance.  

Obama, on the other hand, surprises me.  He should know that had Roe v. Wade  happened before his birth, he might not be here.  If anyone should be pro-life, it is Barak Obama as this brief but poignant youtube clip illustrates:

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This was supposed 

to be aired during the Super Bowl 

but NBC rejected the spot.  

I hope Obama 

has seen it anyway.

 

George Weigel...

More...

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The Annunication 

by Fra Angelico

(Editor's Note:  Nancy Pelosi met with the Pope on February, 18 - the Feast Day of the Patron Saint of Artists, Fra Giovanni da Fiesole (Brother John of Fiesole).  This is especially intriguing as the district Nancy Pelosi represents has long been considered one of the most artistic districts in the United States; San Francisco and its surrounding communities. The majority of the San Franciscan art world would know the "ardent Catholic" Brother John as the great early Italian Renaissance painter, Fra Angelico.  On October 3, 1982, when Fra Angelico was beautified by Pope John Paul II, JPII said:

Angelico was reported to say "He who does Christ's work must stay with Christ always". This motto earned him the epithet "Blessed Angelico", because of the perfect integrity of his life and the almost divine beauty of the images he painted, to a superlative extent those of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

Michelangelo said of Fra Angelico:

One has to believe that this good monk has visited paradise and been allowed to choose his models there.

Fra Angelico did hold leadership positions within his Dominican order and was at one point offered the position of Archbishop by Pope Eugenius, but Fra Angelico preferred the much more simpler life of a monk so he turned it down.

Fra Angelico died in 1455.  His epitaph reads:

When singing my praise, don't liken my talents to those of Apelles.
Say, rather, that, in the name of Christ, I gave all I had to the poor.
The deeds that count on Earth are not the ones that count in Heaven.
I, Giovanni, am the flower of Tuscany.

Fra Angelico mentioning Apelles on his epitaph is most interesting given Nancy Pelosi's recent and repeated scandalous representations of the Catholic Faith. Apelles was a Gnostic who, Tertullian tells us, was a follower of the first well-known heretic of the Church, Marcion. While Marcion had his own ideas of an alternative life and ministry of Jesus Christ that earned him ex-communication, a later and even more well-known heretic, Manichaeus, expanded upon Marcion's themes to develop his dualistic heresy, Manichaeism.  To quote Father Hardon, S.J., "In practice Manichaeism denies human responsibility for the evil one does, on the premise that this is not due to one's own free will but to the dominance of Satan's power in one's life.

Nancy Pelosi, the San Francisco Art World or the anti-life forces she is the sock puppet of probably do not acknowledge the presence of Satan in this world.  Nor they would they admit that the basic argument of a woman's right to choose is not found in Christianity but rather it evolved from both Gnostism and Manchaeism.

Fra Angelico all these centuries later is still able to teach us many things.  Perhaps today his most important lesson is one that has been most forgotten by the Arts World : On this earth, it is possible to be both an incredible artist and a incredibly devout Christian. - Mrs. P)

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A Heart Of Oak Has Been Eclisped

Ex Ossibus

Father M.

 

The recent posts by Elk and Robbo at their respective blogs about the fate of the HMS Victory called to mind a favorite quote from the movie, Hope and Glory: “That’s what this bloody war is all about!  Saving all the pink bits for you ungrateful little twirps!”  The teacher belted out the statement while pointing to different pieces of the British Empire rendered in pink on a large classroom map.

The pinks bits.

Sadly, Great Britain has lost her pink bits.  Now she seeks to trade her proud heritage for thirty pieces of silver. Her Majesty’s government is pursuing the possibility of privatizing the HMS Victory as if she were some rusted-out old car to be put out on some used car lot.  The HMS Victory is no mere nautical treasure but rather a sacred place where Admiral Lord Nelson breathed his last in defense of King and Country.  In addition, from her berth on the Thames the HMS Victory stands as an eloquent museum of a proud past.  This ship is as tangible as any modern interactive display.  Indeed, for the current generations so intoxicated with ‘ virtual’ reality the authentic presence of the HMS Victory is a rare opportunity to enter into a true relic of a glorious past when Britannia really did rule the waves.  For shame that this vessel should end her days floating in Lake Tahoe, dry-docked in Vegas or bobbing in some man-made theme park lagoon in Orlando.

Nearby, in Baltimore, we have the USS Constellation; a noble and historical vessel with nowhere near the storied past of the HMS Victory.   Her keel was down in Norfolk in 1855.  She served in the War Between the States and last saw war duty as a relief ship in World War II.  She continues to grant relief when relatives come from out of town and need to be amused and enlightened for a few hours.  The Constellation is a wonderful place for kids to climb and learn about our nation’s nautical heritage.  Even the most diehard, bored adolescent has been known to lay down his handheld gaming device at the sight of the great miasma of brass, teak and canvas that form this beautiful three-masted sloop.   

We have other monuments to our naval heritage in the U.S.  I have been blessed to stand aboard the decks of the USS Alabama in Mobile Bay, and the USS North Carolina in Wilmington.  I have been able to stand aboard those permanently moored vessels as a tourist because others stood upon her in combat in the darkest hours of our nation.  These magnificent ships stand as a permanent reminder to future generations.   May we give them the dignity they rightly deserve;  in respecting these vessels we honor those who served aboard them.

 

 

 

The Great Christmas Book Series, Cont'd (Father M.)

The Great Christmas Book Series
Father M.

This year I decided to go full-on Faith and leave the histories, fiction and biographies to the other Patum Peperium contributors who are far better lettered in these genres than I am. These are my favorites from the past year’s reading list and after the Holy Father’s little volume they are listed in no particular order.

The Apostles by Pope Benedict XVI. If you read His Holiness’ Jesus of Nazareth then you will want to follow up and see what Our Lord’s closest collaborators were like. A brief, easy-to-read book by our Holy Father that is informative and uplifting. 14.95

The Better Part by Fr. John Bartunek, LC. A Christ-centered prayer resource that one can use in a variety of ways, either chapter-by-chapter or following along with daily readings. I use this book every day and find it to be very insightful. Father Own Kearns, publisher of the National Catholic register stated , “If I could only have one book for my prayer life, besides the Bible and the Catechism, it would be The Better Part.” Well, I can’t improve on that. $35 but 25% off if you order before Christmas.

Pardon and Peace by Alfred Wilson, C.P. We have discussed Confession in our little corner of the blogosphere many times this year and so I thought that this would be a good little volume for me to read again and to heartily recommend. Originally written in 1946, by a British Passionist it is still in print and the best book on the Sacrament of Confession I have found. Don’t expect something dark and plodding as it is lively, practical and occasionally witty. 19.95

The Temperament God Gave You: The Classic Key to Knowing Yourself, Getting Along with Others, and Growing Closer to The Lord by Art and Laraine Bennett Everyone has a God given temperament and when we understand ours we can better find our path to heaven. I stared at this book for months as it is not the type of book I am often given to reading and once I began it I couldn’t put it down. 16.95

The Thrill of the Chaste: Finding Fulfillment While Keeping Your Clothes On by Dawn Eden. Patum Peperium’s favorite chastity writer, rock journalist, Catholic Blog Royalty (and occasional commenter) helps young adults to learn from her mistakes and to grow in faith, hope and love in the true freedom of the children of God, unfettered by the expectations of the vacuous “Sex and the City” crowd. Counter the culture with a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T. 13.99

At the Interface: Theology and Virtual Reality by Sr. Mary Timothy Prokes, FSE. Forward by John Cardinal Foley. People are being drawn more and more into virtual reality and forgetting to live their own lives. Sister Timothy helps us to see the good and the bad of the internet and where we should draw the boundaries. An excellent resource for all of us who wander into the internet. 15.95. 15.95

Father M. Does The Macarena

Ex Ossibus
Father M.

Someone recently asked me to participate in one of the great traditions of the first week of school and write on, “What I did on my Summer Vacation.” In short, I did the Macarena. The Macarena is the baroque, red-marble basilica in Seville which houses the image of Our Lady of the Macarena (also called Our Lady of the Tears) one of the patron saints of the city of Seville and the neighborhood surrounding the Basilica is, of course, called The Macarena as well. Seville is a city made famous for its ancient tradition of magnificent Holy Week processions. The processions consist of statues carried aloft by members of a variety of ecclesiastical confraternities, each group clothed in distinctive penitential garb which, startlingly, resembles the outfits worn by the Klan here in the U. S. Adjacent to the Basilica of the Macarena is the museum which houses the solid silver platform upon which the image is carried, numerous costume changes for the statue, as well as tributes sent to Our Lady of the Macarena from all over the world. The fascinating thing about the museum is that unlike many church museums in Europe, the various ecclesiastical doodads are not careworn, frayed and tarnished but rather perfectly polished and in perfect repair as if, at any moment, an occasion might arise for the statue to be brought out again into the streets attended to by a phalanx of Her curiously attired friends. The Macarena is just one of the many images iconic of the city of Seville.

Seville is a marvelous and unique town. With its sweltering climate it is one of the few European cities to really understand and truly relish air conditioning. Many Europeans love to lecture Americans on the evils and bad health effects of air conditioning (usually while smoking unfiltered Galois’ and enjoying several beers well before lunch…) Upon my arrival the hotel room was refreshingly cool and contrary to the many dooming admonishments I had received in Italy, Portugal and elsewhere, I did not suffer paralysis and my liver did not fall out from the evil effects of the air conditioner. Rather, while indoors I stayed blissfully cool while the thermometer outside showed temperatures to be in the triple digits. The custom of the siesta is truly alive in Seville’s home state of Andalusia where everything closes at noon and only the tourists appear in the streets before the city’s second shift of vibrancy begins at seven. Most restaurants open at nine or ten at night when the cool breezes are more inspiring to the appetite. Chilled sangria and cold Andalusian gazpacho help conquer hunger post-nap and the dry heat outside until the nighttime meal.

Seville is a place, entirely devoid of political correctness, where the small people dream big as the little girls all want to grow up to be Flamenco dancers and the little boys all want to be matadors. The bloody and noble sport of bullfighting is as integral to the city as its bloody and noble Faith where the statues all have blood and tears and Lenten penance and Easter joy are publicly and vividly practiced throughout the city. The three hundred-year-old bullfighting ring, with a baroque chapel at its core, stands in testimony to the Faith, the blood, the tears, and the unapologetic masculinity of the men and the unbridled femininity of the women. The city, once a Moorish stronghold, was captured by the Christians, and after demolishing the central mosque, the inhabitants built the largest gothic Cathedral in the world in its place, with a reredos surrounding the high altar in sterling silver and another one in gold leaf, and then began peppering the city with marble-clad, Murillo and Zurbaran-flecked, statue and candle-filled baroque churches and chapels which remain lovingly used and remarkably well-kept. Fortunately, the Faith is loved and practiced by many inhabitants as the blood and tears of the statues find echoes in the daily life of the city. The best souvenirs to bring back are, of course, are the Faith, confessed tearfully and bloodily and the energy and life which give the Andalusia its soul.

Birthdays and Bright Young Catholic Things

Ex Ossibus
Father M.

In the land of Patum Peperium the feast of the Beheading of John the Baptist is a day of great rejoicing as it is the birthday of its Crown Prince, Little Bertie. Separated by many miles I was unable to partake of his Thomas the Tank Engine gateau anniversaire. Rather, I was invited to celebrate the natal anniversary of Dawn Eden here in the nation's capital.

Basil Seal had, at one point, encouraged me to explain to our favorite chastity author/blogger a little bit about the humor of Patum Peperium and Miss Eden's birthday seemed like the perfect opportunity. If memory serves, the famous Alice von Wonderland was able to move about her surroundings in the rabbit hole by eating something and then drinking something else. Perhaps comestibles would heighten the senses and allow a whiff of the old Peperium mojo to pervade Eden? What to eat? Some of Mrs. P.'s Scottish oat cakes, naturally. What to drink? While Black Velvet seems to be the official drink of Patum Peperium I thought perhaps tea might be in order. What kind of tea? Christine endorsed Assam so off I went to find Assam at the local "Whole Foods". Please note that while "Whole Foods" will valet your SUV they will not purvey Assam. Trust me-- they don't know their Assam from a hole in the wall. I was directed upon request to the tea aisle. There, rising before me, like a Canaanite altar to Baal, was an entire wall of tea: Teas to loose weight or gain health. Teas with names like Sleepy Time and Zinger, Fruity "Free and Lemon Bliss" alas, no Assam. There was even something called "Republic of Tea" which on principle was completely unacceptable. Most likely there had, at one time, been a tranquil Kingdom of Tea and then some socialist tempest-in-a-teapot came to pass and infused the Teas with a bureaucratic Tea welfare state where no one gets to spout off and everyone gets steamed, hence, no Republic of Tea for me. No Sir. I settled on a nice variety box of recognizable teas and shook the dust from my capped-toed shoes.

Off next to the local Barnes & Noble. Barnes & Ignoble is more like it. Past the shelves of self-help books, new age banalities, celebrity tell-alls and latest Oprah's Book Club offerings there was a meager, nearly abandoned section called, "Fiction and Liturature". The goal was to find Miss E. a copy of the "Complete Works of Saki". There was nothing under Saki so I looked for his real name, H.H. Munro. Nothing there either. Surely, I thought, he must be required summer reading in the high schools and requisite beach reading on the smartest shores so there must have been a run on Saki. Shaking, I went to the "B's". Surely, they must have a Beerbohm in here. Anything Beerbohm at all would do. It was not to be. Over to the "C's" Unbelievable! "Um, we don't stock that but we can order it," said the multiply-pierced orifice sounding out this impossible phrase. "It's an emergency. Could you check again, please?" Immediately sensing the end of the world or at least of literacy, I began frantically spelling B-e-e-r-b-o-h-m then S-a-k-i then M-u-n-r-o then C-h-e-s-t-e-r-t-o-n. "Nope, not here. We can order these and you'll have them in four to six weeks." Finally I found one, lone P. G. Wodehouse, "Enter Jeeves: Sixteen Early Stories." It would do very nicely.

Dawn's party was at a new Asian place in downtown Washington. Needless to say, all the Bright Young Catholic Things were there and the list of employers of the birthday revelers read like a directory of the defenders of the faith. The blogosphere was represented as well with such luminaries as American Papist and The Musical Monk. Dawn was very touched by the gift especially the half-dozen oat cakes courtesy of Mrs. P. After promising to read the Wodehouse, she introduced me around to her friends as a priest writing for "one of those Anglophile blogs like Andrew Cusack and Man about Mayfair." I was struck by the youth and the Faith of the group. There were two priests, three seminarians and much orthodox Catholicity and perhaps even a tiny bit of Anglophilia....

Happy Birthday, Dawn! Many thanks for all the good work you are doing.

Washington's D. E.

Ex Ossibus
Father M.

The City of Washington did not have its own resident Archbishop until the 1950’s and so it was long regarded as an ecclesiastical backwater. As the ethnic forces of such places as St. Louis and Detroit flexed their populous Catholic might, Washington was simply the place where they kept the Apostolic Delegate; the symbol of one bureaucracy ensconced in the heart of another. The Cathedral of the Archdiocese of Washington was not originally erected as a cathedral but rather a simple parish church. Well, Washington with the influx of so many Catholic workers in World War II may not have been transformed into a Catholic town per se but it certainly became more of a Catholic town.

These days we rate. A string of Cardinals upon the cathedra, the Missionaries of Charity, Opus Dei, Regnum Christi, Latin Masses, you name it, we have it and now we have another Catholic needle pointing toward true north on the great Map of Faith: The Washington metropolitan area is now home to none other than Dawn Eden and not a moment too soon.

I was at a “Theology on Tap” last night presented by Archbishop Edwin O’Brien, the outgoing Archbishop for the Military Services and incoming Archbishop of Baltimore. He is truly one of the finest members of the American hierarchy. A plain-spoken New Yorker and former 82nd Airborne military chaplain who jumped out of all sorts of aircraft ministering to his flock in Vietnam, he now engages in hand-to-hand combat with moral relativism and the many evils associated with the post-Christian culture of death. So there I was, enjoying my deliciously greasy Reuben, the Archbishop’s witty and insightful talk and the excellent company of Father F. and Sister C., when I saw a familiar face I couldn’t quite place. Then it, um, dawned on me…

The King and I

Ex Ossibus
Father M.

Or how I learned to stop worrying and embrace Catholic Monarchy

Lord Byron once described the Portuguese town of Sintra as a glorious Eden. Well, if Sintra is Eden then their Royal Highnesses, the Duke and Duchess of Braganza are the Adam and Eve. Most Americans, some Europeans and even a few Portuguese, do not realize, that Portugal, a republic since 1910, has an heir to the Throne and a real royal family. The Duke and his family have had a state-subsidized residence in Sintra since his parents were allowed to return from exile in 1952. In a twist of irony, as the seaside resorts of Portugal were filling with Bourbons, Habsburgs, Savoy’s and the tattered remains of many royal lines, Portugal’s own royal family was packed off first to Britain and later to Switzerland.

He wasn’t even the one I wanted to meet. My friend, Father G., an American priest assigned to Fatima, had met His Royal Highness on several occasions and arranged a lunch in an historic local hotel. I was interested in the hotel because George Gordon, Lord Byron, had stayed in the hotel and it makes a cameo appearance in an allusion in Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. I was interested in the lunch because Father G. had also arranged for the presence of the Marquis of Floresta, the Castile and Leon Cronista de Armas of the Kingdom of Spain. If you are a heraldry buff then Floresta is your ultimate go-to guy. If your grandparents were born in Spain, as were mine, then he is the heraldic St. Peter with the power to loose and to bind the mysteries of Iberian genealogy and coats of arms. Yes, the Duke, to me, between the herald and the Harold, was a mere footnote.

John Thayer

Ex Ossibus
Father M.

“Il santo e morto, il santo e morto!” wailed the Roman crowds. The saint was dead. Benedict Joseph Labre, a French beggar who lived under the arches of the ruins of the coliseum had succumbed, at the age of thirty-five, to the many maladies that might plague a homeless man of the eighteenth century. Most of what food he received, he gave away and he would only beg when he could do nothing else to survive. After several attempts at religious life he could find no community that matched the austerity he sought; hence, he finally created a rude hermitage for himself in the bowels of the coliseum, a place precious to him by its consecration with the blood of the early Roman martyrs. The Romans, no gullible witnesses to history, saw his eccentricity, his tatters and his lack of hygiene but they also saw his great holiness, his constant prayer and his total selflessness.

He was laid out in a casket in the Church of Santa Maria ad Montes where he had heard Mass, daily, confessed weekly and prayed incessantly. For several days in April of 1783 the Roman crowds filed by the casket to say good bye and to ask for the intercession of the holy man who had lived among them. One visitor stood glaringly out in an immaculate tri-cornered hat and black suit. He was a thirty-three year old Yale-trained, American Congregationalist minister from Boston by the name of John Thayer. Scion of an old Puritan family, likely relative of Mrs. Peperium, chaplain in the Continental Army, friend and colleague of John Hancock, he had decided to make a post-war pilgrimage to the European continent. As a visitor to Rome, he had seen and heard the commotion the beggar’s death had caused and sought for himself, with Yankee common sense and determination and with the detachment of a coroner, to examine the source of all the fuss and drama. The crowd parted as the exotic American visitor strode purposefully toward the bier. He looked at the holy man’s corpse and, as the Gospel says of St. Thomas the Doubtful, “he saw and believed.”

One month later he became the first American Congregationalist to convert to Catholicism. Eager to make converts of his fellow Yankees he wrote his conversion story. Thayer became famous, or rather infamous for his defection to Popery, and then became a scandalous sensation in New England as his volume went on to be published, with a variety of motives, in England, Ireland, Spain and France. His story was condemned in Puritan pulpits and caused consternation and clucking over many Braintree back fences. Ostracized by his family and not satisfied in his role as a lay apologist, Thayer set sail for France and the Seminary.

He sought entry and was received into the Seminary of Saint-Sulpice, the bastion of French Catholicism which would provide the new United States with some of its earliest priests and bishops. Thayer was ordained and sent to work in the nascent Catholic community in Boston. Well, all the elegant baroque French Catholicism of pre-revolution Paris couldn’t snuff out the Puritan fire bred into Thayer and, to say the least, he scared and startled the immigrant Catholics used only to brief catechetical sermons and never Congregationalist-style energy from the pulpit. As soon as another priest was available for the Boston Catholics, Thayer was sent to St. Mary’s Church in Alexandria, Virginia. If the Boston’s first immigrant Catholics thought he was a little over-the-top, the militantly abolitionist Thayer raised too many hackles in an area where even the Jesuits owned slaves. The ex-Puritan was moved again to Bardstown, Kentucky. The Bluegrass State was pro-slavery as well and yet again fiery Father Thayer was shown the paddock gate after four years. After much colorful correspondence with Bishop John Carroll, it was decided that Father Thayer might do better elsewhere. He found a home in Limerick, Ireland, where the Church, newly free, was beginning to thrive again and the locals appreciated a little New England fire-in-the-belly. For a people who had often be forced to “take the soup” (convert to Protestantism for a steady supply of food) the idea of a formerly Protestant priest tickled the local Limerick sense of irony and he ended his days loved, appreciated and a local celebrity.

Two men, so different as Benedict Joseph Labre and Father John Thayer, one a French pauper the other a wealthy American, still had in common the one most important thing of all, the one, true Faith and the desire to live it and share it. Their connection was so tangential, one coming in to the Church as the other was exiting the world yet they were intimately united in the same Lord who used the different talents of these two good men to make the world a little holier and a little better than what they had initially found.

“What Is Bred In The Bone Will Out In The Flesh”

Ex Ossibus
Father M.

Toward the end of my freshman year of high school I was summoned for some now long-forgotten infraction to the office of the Academic Vice-Principal, a certain Sister Margaret Mary, IHM. What ever chastising, snorting and venting she was doing fell on deaf ears after my eyes alighted upon four little, round filigreed containers on her desk. I could only read the small label of the one closest to me, “St. Margaret Mary, Ex. Oss.” After she finished her harangue she looked at me over the top of her glasses and told me I was free to go. “Sister, what are these?” I asked, pointing to the relics on my way out the door. “Those?” she replied incredulously, “those are first-class relics of saints.” As she did not elaborate, and I recalled that curiosity had been the death of more than one cat, I thanked her and took off down the hallway. Later, a saintly old Jesuit priest, my guidance counselor, filled me in on the meaning and significance of relics and their use in Catholic devotion since the times of the catacombs. It would be years before I would see another relic but the idea of seeing pieces of the bones of saints, or in Latin, “ex ossibus,” fascinated me.