July 28, 2010

So now, I suppose, one might say that tonight's thunder and lightning is God's disapproval of Judge Bolton's decision on SB1070, hmmm?

Divine sunset?

Say what?! I say, WHAT? One of Gilbert's own House hopefuls sees the Arizona flag in a "Gilbert sunset" and interprets that as a divine sign that God supports SB1070.

Now, I don't care which side of the fence she is on in this issue, this is lunacy! For one thing, the Arizona flag was designed to look like a sunset. Duh. Second, is a "Gilbert sunset" different than a Tempe one at the same given moment? Third, is this any more sane than the Jesus tortilla sighting? Fourth, couldn't opponents to SB1070 see the same "vision" and call it on their side?

My state and my town are run by wackos. What is going on?

Confession #125: I believe in signs. I do. I believe the universe and interactive deity lay signs out all the time for me - to guide me, correct me, warn me, reward and delight me. I do NOT believe in a naturally occurring desert spectacle being placed to inspire one group over another. This is just nutty!

What do you think?

Just go here, o.k.? "Why Can't I Own a Canadian?"

Thanks, Keiko!

Confession #123: I try to imagine what it would be like to be a citizen of Planet Earth and be told that it is an abomination to God, according to Leviticus, to be a person who air drums on her car steering wheel while sitting in traffic. I just wonder...

O.k., o.k., I know it might not seem the same, but what must persecution feel like?

Confession #124: Dr. Schlessinger asserts that homosexuality is an abomination to God, yet also says gays and lesbians "can't help what they are." What must THAT feel like, that one's very involuntary existence is an abomination to God? What the...? Is it behavior, identity? I believe one becomes a criminal; one does NOT become a homosexual, and as the old saying goes, "God doesn't make junk!"

in the palm of my hand

When I was a child and snooping in my mother’s bedside table, I found a tiny prayer book that captured my attention. Only about five inches square, its cover was hard-molded, casing-like in lamination yellowed with time. The pages were gilded, and what held my greatest fascination was that the book was hinged. Little metal hinges held the pages, allowing one to close this, snapping it into a little metal clasp like a box. Wow! I thought. A book that locks, in a way. Very cool. The tiny missle held within it a prayer which I was never taught in catechism, not part of the rosary, never heard in Mass. Yet I was immediately drawn to it. Something about its obscurity, its worship of Jesus’s mother, its mysteriousness lying in a tiny book kept private by my own mother, so held my fixation as an eight year old child that I kept returning to it in secret, memorizing every word. No one made me learn this one prayer, but I did. Imagine that. I was enchanted, lured in by the magic of the words. Looking back, perhaps this prayer was imbedded in my brain and soul in order to serve me so many years later when I would need it. Perhaps our everyday moments are laid out for us as preparation and we don’t even know it.

Hail holy queen, Mother of Mercy,
our life, our sweetness, and our hope.
To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve.
To thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping
in this valley of tears.
Turn then, most gracious advocate,
thine eyes of mercy toward us,
and after this, our exile,
show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Oh clement, oh loving, oh sweet Virgin Mary,
pray for us, oh Holy Mother of God, that we may become
worthy of the promises of Christ.

I am sure the words themselves bewildered the little girl who found them: advocate, exile, clement. Huh? What can a child know of the travails of life? How little I understood as a child; how much I would understand later. Somehow, the very music of the language conveyed its sorrowful yet comforting tone.

Confession #120: Perhaps we need to imprint our children at tender ages with the phraseology that will serve them much, much later in life.

Confession #121: The rhythm, the poetry, the very music of formulized prayer, provides comfort in the familiar.

Confession #122: In cleaning out my newly departed mother’s drawer last week, I found a treasure – the little prayer book. I need nothing else of hers.

To the least of my brothers

My intent is that this will be my last entry regarding the Catholic abuse scandals. But I must respond to latest developments that reveal a church that was seemingly immobilized by potential results if pedophile priests were exposed and dealt with, Excerpt case in point:

"...The priest, convicted of tying up and abusing two young boys in a California church rectory, wanted to leave the ministry.
But in 1985, four years after the priest and his bishop first asked that he be defrocked, the future Pope Benedict XVI, then a top Vatican official, signed a letter saying that the case needed more time and that 'the good of the Universal Church' had to be considered in the final decision, according to church documents released through lawsuits."

How do we weigh the needs of the organization over the rights and protection of the individual? Jesus is to have said, "Whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers, that you do unto me." Therein lies the answer. What a great chasm between teachings and doctrine by this point.

Jesus is the great equalizer here. Should we not treat the clerk in the drugstore with the same dignity or compassion or respect or patience as we would a VIP or friend or celebrity?

Ironically, I happen to be watching Judgement at Nuremberg as I write this. Powerful, still, today. "We were not aware of millions being killed, but we were aware of hundreds. Does that make us any less culpable?"

Are our actions judged by the quality or the quantity of people we interact with?

At its conclusion, Spencer Tracy's rousing speech in pronouncing sentencing of Nazi war criminals eerily echoes this blog entry: "This is what we, [the world] stand for: Justice, Truth, and the value of a single human being."

Confession #118: I believe the bible also admonishes, "Judge not, lest ye be judged." Yet, I believe a certain level of "judging" is what propels us forward as a species. Evaluation is the highest level of Bloom's Taxonomy of thinking. I am not willing, at this point, not to judge even the Vatican.

Confession #119: He doesn't know it, but one thing that attracted me early on to my husband is his supremely respectful way in which he treats every individual he encounters; he has no filters for prestige, money, or for what someone can do for him.

Mea Maxima Maxima Maxima Culpa

All right, I held off posting this till after the solemnity of Easter had passed. And so, before I plunge back into the book of Saul...

Just when I think I can't be any more disappointed in the church of my youth (and heck, half my adulthood) we are subjected to exponentially more grievous reports of pedophilia around the world, and years-long cover-ups by way of inaction. But that, folks, is only half the story. Two more chapters surfaced within the last week.

A senior bishop using the same terms the Pope had himself recently, chose Good Friday's papal address to reduce all these nasty accusations and subsequent outrage to "petty gossip of the moment." Excuse me??!! How dare anyone in the Vatican attempt to dismiss or mitigate these reports.

But it gets worse. Another Vatican clergy publicly shared sentiment with the view that all this horrible persecution (now it's not just petty gossip?) was akin to the "collective violence against Jews." (Oddly, this came from a Jew.) The "collective violence" that constituted a Holocaust? THE Holocaust? Jews worldwide incensed. Apology offered today. Damage done. This Vatican is out of touch.

So which is worse? The actions of one who is perverted, mentally and emotionally ill, and using his power over the select few who come within his reach, or one who is perfectly sane, calculating and using his power over a worldwide community of trusting followers. The former, "holy," the latter "infallible!"

For the love of God and Humanity, and to save the papacy, enough is enough!

Confession #115: My heart aches for 200 deaf boys whose voices were taken away, first by their disability, and then by a deaf, dumb, and blind church.

Confession #116: I have no stomach for absolute power that corrupts absolutely.

Confession #117: One of the most endearing elements of Catholicism is that of Confession/Reconciliation/Communion. The world needs no more passive voice of "mistakes were made," but a guttural "I, I am so deeply sorry for what I did and didn't do."

The virgin is back!!

Well, my little chickies, Easter Eve seemed like a good time to resurrect myself out of self-imposed exile and re-open the conversation. It's been a very difficult four months for me - one in which I could not find my writer's voice. I lost my beloved mother, Loretta Beatrice Scharf Stapleton, on February 2. That'll rock one's foundation. The source of my origin has poofed away. Perhaps it is the numbness of grief, but I find myself questioning all the more. Is there a Heaven? Is my God loving and preserving of Mom's spirit? All the cliches about "She's smiling down on you," or "Now she's with your dad (gulp)," bring me little comfort because, let's face it, folks, we---just---don't---know. That is what faith is all about.

Confession #113: I don't NOT believe. I am still nurturing my own relationship with my Creator. I guess I am just still numb.

Confession #114: I desperately wish I could say I feel my mother's presence. Maybe I will when I least try.

Confession #115: I hope I have not lost my faithful (pun) readers out there. Remember, when you leave a comment, that makes a conversation!