Last day of class

I taught two sections this semester of a course on social justice. I never write out what I am going to say--I have outlines, plans, but never anything word-for-word. At the end of one class, I sort of stumbled through a "here's what I hope for you" speech, and walked away thinking, "I sure wish I'd said...." So I wrote it down. And the next day, when the other section met for the last time, I mostly said, but at points actually read them this:

Whether you are Catholic or not, Christian or not, I hope that you come away with a deeper sense that a better world is possible and that you can work in small ways and/or in large ways to help make that possible

Again Catholic, Christian, or not, I hope that you have come to a deeper understanding that the Church is convinced that the gospel demands that all people, especially Christians, should work for justice in the world, and especially that they attend to the needs of the poor and marginalized. (I know the Church fails to live this, I know I—like most “first world” Christians—fail to live it, but) I hope that you have seen something more of the Church’s vision of a world where the dignity of the human person is respected, the common good is worked for, creation is cared for, and the poor and marginalized are included and have all that they need.

I also hope that those of you who do consider yourselves Christian have come to see that the Gospel demands more of you than going to Mass an hour every week on your way to the same ole American Dream the rest of the world is pursuing. I hope that this class has helped you to rethink a bit what you will do with your life. It’s funny. Sometimes I wonder if the next Dorothy Day, the next Daniel Berrigan, the next St. Francis, the next St. Therese of Liseuax might not be sitting in my class. Their lives, to borrow Daniel Berrigan’s line about Dorothy Day, were lived as though the truth is true.

I know none of us will live it perfectly. But I hope this class has given you something to aspire to. The gospel that God so loved the world that He gave his only Son for us, and that we encounter Christ in each encounter with the least of these. I hope that all of us go forth from this semester together a bit more equipped to live as though that truth is true.

I loved watching their faces as I said the line about the next Dorothy Day being in the class. I actually added a line there about how they all had to start learning that truth sometime, somewhere. Why not here?

Anyway, it occurs to me that it is of course a good Advent message, heck, a good anytime-of-the-year challenge to all of us: let us live as though the truth is true. Of course, I'm also tempted to add: and if we don't know what's true, by God, let's start trying to figure it out!

Happy New Year!

Well, the vestments have changed to purple, and a single candle of four is glowing on all the wreaths. It's always fascinated me that we have so many kinds of years--calendar years, school years, fiscal years, and, of course, liturgical years. So strange that this particular year begins as so much is coming to an end--the semester, the leaves, etc. It's also a bit scary to feel so scattered, overwhelmed, and not-ready-for-anything in the face of that for which advent would have us prepare. Find us ready, Lord.

Transcendent rational animals

On a lighter note than recent postings....

As most of you know, I currently have the Coolclan residing with me. It makes for many fun and interesting and sometimes strange moments, most of which I have been too busy to blog about. But here's one I couldn't let go by.

As I headed upstairs this morning, I heard the sounds of Handel's Hallelujah chorus echoing forth from the bathroom. The door was wide open so I risked a peek inside. There was young James (4 years old) sitting completely naked on the toilet, singing at the top of his lungs. The mood of the music was such that I had to ask the question "Are things going well in here?" I got his pretty typical joyful smile and the seemingly delighted claim "I'm pooping!" I said, "I figured that. But you seem so happy about it!" He added "I'm singing!" "I know, I heard you." He said--with no change in mood at all--"Did you know that people aren't supposed to see other people pooping?" I said, "I've heard that. Did you know that people ought to shut doors when they are pooping so that other people don't see them? I'll get it for you." I closed the door and walked away.

There is something so strange and beautiful about the whole thing. His innocent joy, which certainly had more to do with the echo-y quality of the bathroom than with nakedness or poop, was still just unabashed by my presence. And of course he merely sang Alleluia after Alleluia because he knew the words and the tune, not because he was trying to express that kind of joy, but it sure seemed like it. It seemed like he was celebrating the transcendent in the midst of this very animal human moment.

What a strange and beautiful ability children have to embody, more deeply than they can possibly know, the strange contradictions of being a trascendent rational animal.

Good news, bad news, and hope

If you haven't read my last blog entry, you probably should before you continue with this one. When last we left things, the provincial (let's call him Fr. D) had done a lot of listening and basically refused to respond, prefering to sit with what he had heard and come back about 10 days later for another meeting and respond then. That meeting happened Thursday, on the feast of St. Francis. The humble peacemaker seemed to have intervened for us, because the meeting could not have begun better.

Fr. D began by saying that he had heard a lot of pain and anger and disappointment, but also a love and care and concern for the parish. He admitted (more clearly than I imagine could be prudent from a legal point of view) that he made a mistake when he assigned the priest in question to the parish, and he was also mistaken not to come in person to talk to the parish about the law suit and about the settlement when each of those things occurred. He said that he listened to lawyers and all the concerns about what could not be said, when he should have listened to his own instincts about the importance of presence and all the things that could be said, without regard to the law. He said very clearly "I apologize for all this and I ask for your forgiveness." It seemed to be just about everything we could have hoped for.

He went on to talk about the new norms the Order has in place to review their personnel, and they seem, for the most part, to be the right things. He spoke of ensuring that the children of the parish get Safe Environment training and that outside professionals come to talk to children who had significant contact with the priest in question (especially them and their parents, but actually, this is extended to anyone for whom this has created or re-surfaced issues). This will include informational sessions on everything from working through anger issues to recognizing signs of abuse in your child. In addition, there will be counsellors available for those who have individual issues to talk about. I mean, really, this is all the right stuff, right?

He mentioned that he knew there were other issues in the parish and he is sending a trained facilitator to help the parish through some listening sessions and a visioning process for overall healing and renewal. Again, seems pretty great.

But apparently even St. Francis cannot hold evil at bay, because then, for some reason, perhaps in response to a question, he began to talk about the settlement, in which the Order paid a young man $1.2 million dollars related to his allegations of abuse by this priest that Fr. D had just apologized for assigning to our parish. It started pretty informationally: "By the way, although some alleged victims insist on such a clause, nothing in this settlement demands or includes or implies an admission of guilt." And then, the very clear statement: "I do not believe that this priest has ever molested a child."

Well, that's when the wheels began to come off. Now, I have read many but not all of the depositions and supporting evidence that we have and let me state this clearly: I do not see anything in all of that that makes me what I would call "absolutely certain" that this priest ever molested a child. But there are very clear descriptions of inappropriate behavior and there is testimony about concerns dating back to 1985, in four completely different locations. And there is this very clear allegation that was settled for over a million dollars. I am not absolutely certain that this priest ever abused anyone, but I cannot imagine any reasonable person claiming to be even relatively convinced that he did not.

So, the responses went in three basic directions. One set pointed toward specific information from the depositions: how can you know that blah blah blah and still believe that he is not a child molester? Easy answer, but deeply disturbing: I haven't read all that information. This led many to another disturbing question: why are many of us so interested in understanding what happened here that we stayed up late in the last two weeks reading this and you ... didn't? Do you just not care that much about us? About the truth? Direction #2 was simply but poignant: so then, the children who made these claims ... do you think they were lying? You must not understand much about children. And direction #3--perhaps this was simply where the first two directions rejoined, because everyone seemed to go here eventually: so, if you think he never molested any children, what exactly were you apologizing for at the beginning?

I actually felt quite bad for him. I really believe that he means well and that he really is doing all the right things. But another great saint of a friar used to insist (quoting Aristotle of course) that the virtuous man is the one who not only does the virtuous thing, but does it in the right way, at the right time, for the right reason, etc. Any defect is enough to make an action--even a mostly good action--evil. And it just began to seem to people, I think, that he was apologizing and changing the norms and attending to the needs of the parish not because his desires are rightly ordered and he truly sees the good of all these things, but because the legal and financial well-being of his Order demands it. One can be a prudent thief, Thomas says, but such an end distorts the virtue itself. I would suspect he would also argue that if the provincial is prudent qua CEO and not prudent qua friar, prudent qua priest, even prudent qua Christian, he is pretty distorted as well.

I remain deeply hopeful that this particular friar means to be putting his prudence at the service of charity, which is the right way around. I think he is open to hearing from us, his brothers and sisters, the ways he has allowed a disordered charity for his brother friars to become uncharitable both to them and to us, and, of course, especially to our children.

Please continue to pray for our parish, and for the victims, the perpetrators, and the unwitting abettors (lay, religious, and ordained) of clergy sexual abuse.

Under the Ruins

Sorry I haven't blogged in a while. I've been trying to do other sorts of writing. Which are coming along ... slowly.

I know some of you have been concerned about life in my parish. That's what the disturbing statuses on Facebook have been about. Quick reminder of some old news can be had here. For the past month, I've been going to Mass across town, but also meeting with some folks who want to save the parish. A little research and a few phone calls, and the lawyer for the alleged victim in the case emailed us all the depositions of everyone involved.

Now, let me acknowledge a couple of things, which still astound me when I think about it. Having read most of these depositions, I now have more information available to me about the alleged abuser's history than the relevant responsible parties had available to them in 2003 when they assigned him to the parish. I also want to acknowledge that I have read what is basically the alleged victim's case (his lawyer deposing the alleged perpetrator, who took the fifth on everything, and a bunch of other witnesses; the exhibits and supporting evidence that they filed etc). But it's pretty clear to me that there were a TON of red flags on this guy and he could have reasonably been denied access to children as early as 1985, but by the mid-90s it was getting increasingly unreasonable not to deny him access. And, at this point, it looks like so many people in his religious community could have easily decided to look a little deeper, but instead, they looked away.

So, here's this horrible, horrible situation, right. And a bunch of us wrote letters to the priest in charge of the Province, who made the assignment, and more or less demanded that he come up here and meet with us regarding the whole thing. He actually agreed, and came, and we had the meeting last night. So here was the train-wreck waiting to happen: some of us having read all these depositions, convinced this guy was really the best face of the sex abuse crisis since Cardinal Law; him and his entourage, who seemed likely, from his initial email responses to some of us, to dismiss our concerns; plus, many people in parish leadership who had no clue about any of this, and thought we were simply going to talk about 1 abusive priest and had no idea that there was even a hint of anyone else's complicity in the thing.

But the funny thing is, the wreck didn't exactly happen. First, the priest involved was very reconciliatory and, by my read, humble. (Others mentioned that they found his silent nodding offensively condescending.) He did NOT defend his actions in assigning the priest here. That was somewhat disappointing, as I would still love to hear what he possibly could have been thinking. Basically, he let us beat him up for about an hour. Then he responded a little and we beat him up a little more.

By the way, he told us what penances he was doing related to clergy sex abuse and volunteered to do more if we didn't think it was enough. He didn't quite give us the satisfaction of the truth, nor did he give us platitudinous affirmations. He did apologize.

Many people spoke of the pain of this assignment, of the fear that struck them and the news came out and they began to wonder which of their sons or their friends' sons might have been victimized. They also spoke of a long pattern of poor communication and pastoral neglect that the order as a whole has shown the parish, and how this assignment was not an abnormality but the straw that has broken the camel's back. But they also spoke of how much the community has meant, how much life it has given them, how much of their own lives they have given it. And then the message, loud and clear. Never said quite like this, though close: we are the Church, Father, and we will be the Church with or without you. We don't exactly trust you anymore, but we'll give you another chance. Help us rebuild this place. Help us nurture a place where our kids can learn the faith and be safe. Or get out of the way.

I really was inspired, and I'm still not sure why. It is certainly too much to say that forgiveness and reconciliation have been accomplished. Perhaps I'm astounded that everyone hung in the conversation as long as they did. It feels a bit like a miracle, a bit like Christ's promise that the gates of hell would not prevail against us might be true.

I'm so hopeful, and so afraid to hope. And I've only been here about a year. A strange gift to discover a community I think I might value so much in the basement under the ruins of the nearly-empty church that has been killing my soul all year.

Adventures in Dog-parenting

I alluded to more chaos coming, and it has arrived. The Coolclan is coming to stay for a few weeks while they await the completion of some work on their house. They stopped in for about an hour today to drop off some stuff before heading out of town for the long weekend.

Their 4 year old son James (who has had his own share of adventures) handed me an empty container and said "I fed Lily her food." The problem was that the container he handed me had formerly held raisins. There was a little debate about what had actually been in the container, but I was pretty sure it had been half full of raisins. I had a very clear but unsubstantiated memory that the top three foods never to feed a dog were chocolate, grapes/raisins, and onions.

I headed out to the back yard, where Lily and Digger were tied up running around, and all looked normal. I came back inside and checked the internet and found that, indeed, raisins are among the most toxic foods for dogs, at least potentially. As little as 9 ounces of raisins has led to death through renal failure. My guess is that Lily consumed about 6 ounces of raisins. The article I clicked on said that you would see vomiting immediately and then ... well, all sorts of scary things would happen. But no vomiting ensued right then, so we figured all was well and the Coolclan left.

But I am, apparently, an obsessive dog parent. I googled again and clicked on another 3 or 4 articles. From these I basically gleaned that symptoms would not appear for 6-24 hours. So, I decided we weren't out of the woods. I was basically thinking about rushing off to the vet with no apparent symptoms. I did a little more reading. The main recommendation that emerged was not going to the vet but inducing vomiting. I pictured myself trying to shove a finger down Lily's throat and didn't like the image at all.

It turns out there is a much easier way to induce vomiting in a dog: hydrogen peroxide. You give them 1 tsp for each 10 pounds of body weight. I couldn't figure out if she would just drink it or not. By the way, this is the part where I really started to feel slightly evil. I took 2.5 teaspoons of hydrogen peroxide and mixed it into Lily's favorite creamy snack: peanut butter. My poor unsuspecting pup thought she was getting a treat and lapped it right up.

About 10 minutes later, she was puking all over the backyard. Poor thing. Five or six gross little piles. And let's just say the piles clearly ended any debate about whether she had eaten raisins or dogfood.

And here's the moment where I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she is mine and I am hers and I'll always take care of her no matter how gross it gets. I realized that she (and Digger) were going to eat the puke if I left it there, toxic raisins and all. So I went through my yard and picked up all the puke, making certain not to miss a single raisin. I didn't do it bare-handed or anything, but it is among the grosser things I think I've done.

And I'd do it again.

Lily, though somewhat subdued for a while, seems no worse for the wear now. I do wonder if she'll ever eat peanut butter again. I have a feeling the answer is yes.

The police called me

Not too long ago, I wrote about the first time I finally broke down and called the police. Tonight, the shoe was on the other foot: the police called me.

Okay, it wasn't exactly the police; it was campus security. But they were calling with a message from the police. The police had the family of one of my semi-dependent, semi-rational housemates with them, and they were desperately looking for her, and they only knew that she was staying with a prof on my street. I'm guessing that campus security perused some sort of faculty address list, because, well, they called me.

(Random aside on the gift of dogs in my life. The phone call began with, "Hello, Professor, this is So-and-so in campus security. I think I met you the other night. You were walking two cute little doggies." Yep, that's me.)

Security wasn't going to disclose my info without my permission, but there were distraught parents looking for their daughter and ....

I met the parents. Well, it turned out it was mom and a brother. Of course, there is a lot more to the drama, but I think it's more than I really want to blog. Actually, it's more than I really want to be a part of right now. Strange that the looming semester promises a certain amount of rest from the chaos of the summer.

Well, actually, the chaos is just beginning. But I'll save that for my next post.

Parish shopping?

I think I may be shopping for a new parish soon, which really bothers me, since I don't believe in parish shopping.

But here's the deal. This article was in the paper last Friday: the Dominican priest who served in my parish as a youth minister was moved here by his province after he got caught playing with teenage altar boys in another state. Disturbing enough.

But my current pastor was the guy who fired the well-loved lay youth minister (supposedly to save money) since Fr. AJ was perfectly capable of doing the youth ministry. Let me say this clearly: aware of the allegations, my pastor decided to make it the guy's job to hang out with teenagers. Are you more disturbed yet?

OK, one more then. After the news broke on Friday that the Dominicans paid out 1.2 million bucks to the guy's major victim/accuser, our pastor felt a need to address the congregation. He read a prepared statement that made no acknowledgement of the knowledge that he and/or his brother Dominicans had before placing AJ here, took no responsibility, and made no apology. It simply expressed the hope that the financial settlement would begin to bring healing.

Huh?

With all due respect to the pain and the need for healing of the victim (seriously--he is definitely the most damaged, the most in need of healing), he wasn't there, and his pain and healing was not what needed to be addressed as Fr. Mike talked to his flock 48 hours after the news broke.

So, what does that statement mean? Is the idea that the victim is getting money supposed to lessen this parish's sense of betrayal? It seems to many of the folks around here that this is an extreme but typical manifestation of the sort of pastoral attention this parish tends to get.

So I'm disturbed. And I'm thinking of shopping....

You can drag a dog to water....

The pack (Lily and Digger and I) send you our greetings from Bow Lake in New Hampshire. We are here for "adults and dogs" weekend, courtesy of some friends who have delightedly sent their two boys off with the grandparents for a while. Walking, swimming and boating were our mejor accomplishments today.

Lily didn't exactly take to the water like her alleged labrador heritage would suggest she might. She actually swam quite handily with no assistance whatsoever, unless of course you count dragging her to the water, coaxing her in, cuddling with her while she just barely had her paws in, and that finally sort of walking her in and letting her go. So she can most definitely swim, but she pretty much hates it.

Digger frolicked along the edge of the water, but never got in deep. Well, almost never. I decided that we should see if he could swim. He can. He also isn't wild about it.

Oh well.

Tripped on any good smells lately?

A few days ago, the pack and I were running around campus (leashes off--ah, the freedom!) with some friends, including 7-year-old J-boy. I had called Lily back to me from quite a distance--maybe 30 yards or so. Being the almost-well-trained dog she is, she immediately dropped what she was doing and ran straight to me. And then, halfway to me, she stopped abruptly and stumbled a bit as she skidded to a halt, turned around and began to root around in the ground for something.

J-boy, having seen all this, turned to me, and, sounding a bit worried, said, "I guess she tripped over something." I said, "Yeah, I think she tripped over a smell."

He saw what I meant almost immediately, and has been revisiting the joke frequently. "Have you tripped over any good smells lately, Lily?" "Smell this, but don't trip!" It's pretty cute.

So, the phrase is on my mind a bit, and comes to the fore when I notice myself smelling something. For instance, lately I've been tripping over the smell of the basil in the herb garden just outside my kitchen door. And, what a delight it is when I remember to set the timer on my coffeemaker and groggily trip all the way down the stairs on the smell of freshly brewing coffee!

I've also been thinking a little about the idea of tripping on a smell in another sense, that sense in which a smell takes you on a trip, usually down memory lane. There are a thousand smells, I'm sure, that would take me instantly back to my mother's kitchen, but I can't really thiink of any right now. It's very hard, for me at least, to bring a smell to mind without a smell to remind me. Funny how easily the memories come flooding back together with a smell, and how hard it is to remember a smell.

Trippin' on smells, indeed.

Back to the dogs

I have, before in this pages, reflected on the tragic fate of the almost-virtuous. This fate, which I feel to be my own, involves being good enough to see and to recognize the good, but not good enough to really desire it, so you do it but you resent it, or fall short in a similar way.

So, lately, I am haunted by the question of whether I am doing right by my foster dog, Digger T. Cooldog. How virtuous, of course, for me to take him in. Or should I say almost virtuous? I fear I may be treating him with a little less love and affection than my beloved Lilypup. And it manifests itself more than anything, in this: when we go out in the backyard, they fight. And Digger seems to get the worst of it all of the time. I think the exercise does them good. But sometimes she seems downright mean to him. In fact, Lily is always playing and playful, wagging her tail. Digger spends half the time cowering in fear.

So, most of the day today, when it happened, I broke it up. I pulled her off of him. I made her sit and stay. I stepped on her leash and extended his, so that he could get away from her if he wanted. Then tonight, not too long ago, we came in from a walk, and here's what happened.

He tried to hump her. (For you doggie novices, don't worry. They are both fixed, and also, this is as much about dominance in the "pack" as about sex.) He spent all day cowering and having me pull her off of him, and now he's going to try to hump her? Good luck! I watched as she tossed him off of her back, onto his back on the floor, and then held him down with her teeth on his throat. I let them stay like that growling at each other for a little while, then made her release him. I kept them separate to calm down for a little while.

Guess what happened next? Just read the last paragraph again. Same exact thing.

I've decided that tomorrow, I won't protect him. And I'm not so bothered by the idea that I might not be protecting him enough.

Benevolent Dictator of the Animal Shelter

A quick update from life in the animal shelter. I call it an animal shelter because I am currently offering shelter to two rational animals (a student and a recent grad who had some gaps in their summer housing plans) and, of course, two nonrational canine animals, affectionately known as the Cooldog and the Lilypup.

It’s interesting to have spent so much time living in community and thinking about how to get along with many animals (mostly rational) sharing life and space together, and now have some animals with a definite pack mentality thrown into the mix, along with two young women in their very early twenties. To twist Alasdair MacIntyre, the phrase independent rational animals comes to mind.

It is interesting to feel, in the midst of this community of animals, that the dogs and I are a pack, a community, and the others are passing through, especially since one of the dogs is really just passing through. But, in the pack, as mentioned before, I’m the alpha dog: I give care and direction. I make sure all their needs are met and I pretty much control their lives. Harder to do—and, of course, I wouldn’t really want the responsibility—with rational animals.

It’s hard, living among independent rational animals—especially those who have made no real commitments to one another, who share neither covenant nor goals, nor have any real claims on one another. Dependence and interdependence, among rational animals, must be very carefully negotiated. One cannot simply—as one does with a puppy or even a child—take responsibility for another rational animal’s well being. Even when you suspect they could really use the help.

Yet again, I find myself recalling and continuing to renounce my now-defunct campaign to become benevolent dictator of the world. I pushed for this a bit during the presidential election campaign in 2004. I was, in part, trying to make the point that dictatorship doesn't have to be all bad and, actually, doesn't have to be totalitarian. I finally renounced it, not because I gave up on the idea, so much as I realized that, though it would have been good for the world, but it would have been bad for my soul.

It's too bad, eh, that life isn't easier sometimes, for all the animals? Too bad that it is so hard to find real shelter and peace and community, the kind that would really allow for right flourishing, especially for rational animals struggling somewhere between dependence, independence, and interdependence.

But dang! I'm glad I'm not in charge of arranging it for everyone in the world!

Gone to the Dogs: The Return of Heidegger T. Cooldog

Things have changed in casa-de-danedy since the Cooldog was last among us. It seems that Digger is no longer top dog. He's not even number two.

Well, it depends how you count.

When Digger was here in May, I knew nothing about dogs, except that one should feed them and walk them occasionally. So, when Digger whined outside my bedroom door, I let him in so I could get some sleep. I tried to persuade him to sleep on the floor, to no avail. Within about a half an hour, he had persuaded me that the only way I was going to get any sleep was to let him into my bed, which I did. (A pause to note that most rational animals couldn't have accomplished that, and certainly not so fast!)

But now, Lily has arrived. And because of her, I have acquired a certain amount of knowledge about dogs and about pack dynamics. I did a little reading (Monks of New Skete; Cesar Millan) and learned that I should be the pack leader and some ways of maintaining that. The Monks of New Skete sold me on the idea that dogs do best when they sleep in your room but not your bed. This communicates to them both that they are part of your pack and that you are the leader. Lily sleeps in a crate on the floor near the foot of my bed. So, what to do with Digger?

I decided to put his bed on the floor near Lily, but not too close. He was determined not to stay there but to climb in bed with me. I ended up anchoring him by his leash to a knob on my dresser, where he had a little play in the leash, but certainly not enough to get to my bed. He whined, he yelped, he begged to be released. It seemed clear to me that he remembered the sleeping arrangements from before. I ignored him. He kept yelping. I kept ignoring. And before TOO long (maybe 20 minutes), he calmed down and went to sleep. (Thank God!)

By the way, Lily was an angel through all his yelping last night. Today, of course, was another story. There was about 20 minutes where Digger lay at my feet like a saint while Lily yelped and whined from her crate. (I suspect that his non-verbals were communicating (you have to read this to the "tune" of a playground taunt) "Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha, she likes me better, I'm at her feet and you're in a jail cell!")

I think that we've settled into a sense that, for a couple weeks at least, this is the pack, like it or not. Also, we ended up having 2 doggie-play-dates with other (big, rough, wrassling) dogs and one run-around-romp with 2 kids and a tennis ball in a fenced-in softball field). I think we're all exhausted, especially the beta and gamma dogs that did all the serious running and wrassling.

Actually, Alpha Dog is a little tired, too. But she's writing a page of her dissertation before she turns in.

Nuns and puppy love

Yesterday (after the book was finished), Lily and I went for her first walk onto campus with some friends. We didn't get far when we ran into a couple of nuns who are here for graduate classes this summer, whom I had met a couple of weeks ago. They were so excited to see the puppy, but then one asked me "Do you have a minute? Sr. Mary So-and-so would be so SAD to hear she missed the puppy, can I go get her?" Of course I agreed to wait.

Most of these sisters are Nashville Dominicans, though 2 are from Ann Arbor. We have 4 of the Nashville sisters running our parish school. They are always among the most joyful people--I mean absolutely radiating a joyfulness--that you would ever want to meet.

So, the sisters returned, and before long we had about 7 nuns gathered, in their full Dominican habits (white robe with a black veil), loving on my puppy. And the joy being radiated was extraordinary. It was fun.

And it's good to have a dog. (And, of course, it is good to have nuns!)

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

I was standing at a register with my prepaid gift cards in the exact amount of the 3 copies I was buying (only 1 for me; 2 for friends taking advantage of my willingness to stand in line and obtain wristbands # 6, 7, and 8. With 6 registers working, the first 6 of us got to be waiting at the register as they counted down until midnight. Very exciting.

Even better was the fact that I went home, took my puppy on a potty break, got in my pjs and was in bed reading by 12:25. Woo-hoo! I read until about 4am, then started again not too long after Lily woke me up about 7am. Except for potty breaks and feedings (human and canine), I pretty much read all day yesterday, finishing around 4pm. The last third or so was slow going, as I was crying on and off.

What happened? Well, there was death, sacrifice, redemption, forgiveness, and new life, together with a lot of explanation about what has gone on in the past. Good, good stuff. But I'll refrain from putting the details here. At least for a while.

So excited!

Lily (the pup) does a thing when I start getting her food together: sprints a quick lap around the house, jumps, turns quick circles, wags her tail like crazy. The excitement is palpable. That's how I feel: Harry Potter book 7 will be in my hands in 2.5 hours (wag, jump, pant, sprint!). So excited!

Lily: Week 1

Well, it hasn't quite been a week yet, but this report is overdue anyway. Lily, my beautiful 12-week-old labrador retriever, arrived as scheduled to a McDonald's parking lot on the Rhode Island/Connecticut border. (I will post pix soon; I've taken several, but can't find the connection cord anywhere!) She is a very deep golden--almost brown, with maybe a hint of gold. I think her color is like a darkish golden retriever. The thing that is slightly weird about it is that she is a lab, with lab short hair, but golden-colored. She's beautiful.

The arrival was very smooth. There were probably 5 or 6 of us adopters waiting for dogs. Many of us found one another before the transport arrived. I talked for a while with an older couple who had always had dogs but had been without one for the past five years since their last one died. They were waiting for their 3 year old, a Katrina refugee.

Once the transport arrived, my girl stole everyone's heart (mine first!). She was the youngest pup arriving (though two of her littermates were to get out at the next stop), and she jumped and nipped and was all around energetic and adorable.

I got her into the car. I had a cardboard box in the passenger seat. I figured it would contain her (and any accidents!) a bit, but allow me more access to pet and comfort her than a crate would. It worked pretty well.

And every since, it's been wonderful, exhausting fun, but has been incredibly smooth. I got sold on crate training, so that what we're doing. I know, some people think it's cruel, but from wht I read and from what I can tell, she loves it. Don't get me wrong, she'll whimper to get let out, especially since I have her crate positioned right near my computer, so I am usually about 5 feet from her when she is crated. But generally, if I ignore her for about 5 minutes (or less!) she settles down.

And the best part: we have had no accidents in the house yet. She hasn't gone in the crate; she hasn't gone in the house. Woo-hoo! She has slept through every night but one, and that was really not her fault, but the fact that a car alarm went off and unsettled us both.

She can more or less sit, and she can sort of do "down." She occasionally retrieves (ah! instincts!), though rarely on command. She really doesn't know her name yet. But it will come.

Two of the most fun things for me so far. One is that a neighborhood friend of mine has twice brought her dogs over to play. Jake is an older pit/great dane mix--lovable but a big guy. Zoe is a 1-year-old pure pug, who thinks she's a big dog because she's been raised with Jake. She's a tad smaller than Lily, but they're close. You really haven't seen anything until you have seen these two full body dog wrestle, complete with puppy pounces and combat rolls. It's amazing.

The other isn't quite that fun, but it is pretty cool. I bought a dog toy that is shaped like a football and is designed to be filled with treats. The dog has to shake it to get the treats out. I fill it up with a few treats and a little kibble and I put it on the floor. Lily attacks it like crazy. She swats it, she pounces on it, she grabs one end of it and shakes it ... it's hilarious! Makes me wish I had a video camera! (No, I'm not going there!)

Anyway, it is good to have her here. At least it feels that way right now!

It Ain't Easy (Being Green)

Slowly, over the past year or so, I’ve been going greener and greener. It’s hard to say that out loud, even in the merely analogical sense in which blogging something is saying it out loud. I think it’s hard for two reasons. One, I feel like an idiot for not having gone greener sooner. Second, I know how hard it would be to get as totally green as I’d like to be, and I know that there are things that I don’t even know about, so it’s a little embarrassing to admit that you have such a goal. It opens you up to being called out.

In my time in North Carolina, I had several housemates who were much more into these things than I ever was. Their passion for such things as vegetarianism, composting, eating organic, CSA (Community Supported Agriculture), and minimizing car use was pretty irritating at times. But it was also formative for me, as it turns out. Funny how the things that irritate us can come to be among the things we hold dear.

I decided it was important to me to live close enough to work so that I would walk. I actually bike occasionally, too, but I never drive. My former housemates would probably chuckle at that, since I used to drive pretty much everywhere.

I also greened my power. All my electricity comes from solar and wind power. If you are in Rhode Island, you can do this here. (There are other options, but this is the best, because it is local, non-profit, and comes from completely renewable sources. It’s also tax-deductible. If you need to do baby steps, they have a 50% green option.)

I compost, and I have a small container garden—mostly herbs, a few tomatoes and peppers. I also bought a share in a CSA with this farm. Well, half a share; I’m splitting it with some friends. But I’m thrilled to be buying local and entering into the discipline of my eating choices being shaped by what the earth gives rather than what strikes my fancy when I am standing in the supermarket produce department. It also makes for some pretty produce-heavy eating, which has to be good for me.

It also seems to me that all eyes, as it were, are turning to this stuff. I found this on a friend’s blog the other day, as she and her husband are attending to how much energy use goes into both shipping and storage (I hadn’t thought of that!) to keep our fresh foods fresh, even when they are local.

It's not easy, but it's important to keep trying to become better and better stewards of this world given into our collective care.

A New Moment

Well, it finally happened. I finally broke down and called the cops on my neighbors.

I was actually awake and in the kitchen (putting tomorrow's oatmeal on to soak) when I heard the popping begin. Actually, at first it scared me silly. Then I realized it was just fireworks. I looked at the clock. After 1am. Hmm, I thought, that's pretty inappropriate. But I figured it wasn't THAT loud, THAT big a deal, and it would soon pass.

The next round was a little louder and a little longer. I walked outside to see if I could tell where it was coming from. Behind me and 1 or 2 houses over. Hmm.... My hand drifted to my pocket, checking to see if I had my phone. And then the screaming bottle rockets started. Then the bursts blossoming about 40 feet over the trees. Pretty, but scary. By now, 1:20.

At this point, I actually didn't hesitate. In fact, I felt more than a little "under fire." I dialed 911. The operator connected me to the police. I was half apologetic ("Sorry to bother you with this, but it seems a little inappropriate, especially at this hour"), but the officer said "I hear it in the background. Hang on, I'm putting you on a recorded line. This is happening in a BACKYARD?!!!! We'll send someone right over."

Now, I'm sure that if it came down to vindication, the recording would have served. But I noticed an odd interior shift that can only be chalked up to my credibility being on the line. You see, I had been rooting for the fireworks to stop, so I would be justified in not calling. Now, suddenly, I was rooting for them to keep going until the cops arrived. I can't quite be sure, but I think they did. At a certain point, I was still hearing firecrackers and I thought the lights were not so much the lights of fireworks, but more the flashing lights atop a police cruiser. They reflected oddly against the smoke that had filled the neighborhood.

Either way, all is quiet now. I just feel a little twinge of tattler's guilt. And of course I'm haunted by the idea that if I were a better neighbor, I would have talked to them directly rather than calling the cops. But I'm not sure that people shooting off that many fireworks at that hour deserve that kind of respect.

I suspect this won't be the last time I call the cops on my neighbors.

Simple pleasures and imaginary conversations

Inspired by the encouragement of a friend, I've made an upgrade in my morning oatmeal. Having only had (and pretty much hated) instant oatmeal as a kid, I'm not quite sure how I managed to give oatmeal a try again. I think it might have been those cold New England mornings! Anyway, I've pretty much had a bowl of oatmeal every morning since about a month after I moved here. At first it was quick-oats, but before too long I upgraded to rolled oats. Then on Saturday, I happened to be on the phone with someone just as I was loading my organic rolled oats into a plastic bag in the bulk food aisle at Whole Foods. She said to go for the steel-cut, which were actually also organic (not surprising) and actually cheaper (shocking) thant the rolled oats. So yesterday morning, I made the move to steel-cut oats. Today is morning number two of this bliss. And though it is very tempting--you'll see how tempting in a moment--to wax poetic to extol the virtues of steel-cut oats, I'll keep it simple: dang, they're awesome!

They are awesome enough that they put some poetry in my mind this morning. Some of you may remember that I went to hear Galway Kinnell at a poetry reading this spring. One of the poems he read was "Oatmeal." Unfortunately, if you follow that link, you'll have to read it yourself (he won't be there to read it to you!), so you may not appreciate just how slowly and playfully (and thus incredibly amusingly) he read it. It really isn't about oatmeal quite so much as it is about his having a bowl of oatmeal with an imaginary John Keats. Somehow I found myself eating (and loving!) my steel-cut oats (aka Irish oats) and remembering this poem and thinking "I bet they were eating these."

I'm also thinking of inviting someone to breakfast tomorrow. Perhaps breakfast with Thomas Aquinas--and hearty whole-grain goodness--could start me off on a great day of writing!

Nature abounds, too

I know that some of the readership is particularly interested in these sorts of updates. But I'll begin with the end: all is well.

Paul didn't show back up at the group home last night. This is the first time this sort of thing has happened since he moved in there in February. I got a call from the group home manager this morning asking if I'd seen him and informing me of the whole thing.

By this point in my life, somehow I've learned not to worry too much, because he always shows up. Sure enough, someone found him at one of his normal hangouts around lunchtime. He missed two doses of his medicine, so they are taking him in for evaluation. I spoke to him and asked what happened. In pretty typical Paul fashion, it was a little confused, but it went something like this. He missed the last bus back to the home, so he figured he might as well try to either go to Texas or get a job. Somehow, he ended up at a homeless shelter instead, but this morning he figured he would work on getting a job and/or going to Texas. Obviously, he got as far as one of his ordinary lunch locations. Oh well.

The best thing, though, for any of you keeping track is that (a) I didn't spend last night worrying about him and wondering where he was, (b) I wasn't the one out looking for him this morning, and (c) I am not at the doctor with him right now getting the evaluation of the impact of missed doses on his fragile mental health.

I am, of course, spending my valuable time blogging about him, though. Okay, back to work.

Canine companionship

Well, I just mailed off the adoption contract for this little darling. She is a lab mix, born the first week of April. Her mom and her litter were rescued from a high-kill shelter in Tennessee and she'll be transported to New England on July 14th. On my facebook space, I'm running a conversation about what to name her. I've been thinking about names with some sort of an interesting connection to saints, theology, philosophy, and literature (esp Shakespeare, Jane Austen, and Harry Potter).

Right now, I think the frontrunners are Lily and Iris Murdawg. Iris Murdawg would be for the philosopher Iris Murdoch, who exerts a certain amount of influence over my thinking about moral matters. Her insight that "choices are something you make when ethics has already failed" looms large.

The name Lily is a bit more complex and of course less obvious. I was looking a bit at various titles of Mary and found that she is known, because of an apparition to St. Gertrude, as the White Lily of the Trinity. This has do to in some particular ways with the way Mary, through God's grace, embodies the virtues of the Trinity in her life. I like that. Plus, Lily is the name of Harry Potter's mom, who also embodies many virtues, not least of which is the willingness to lay down her life for her son.

I know some of my loyal readership has engaged this conversation on Facebook, but I'd welcome your insights here. That's of course especially true for those of you who don't do Facebook.

Like riding a bike

So, I've been trying to do some serious writing of the dissertation. When I write the dissertation, I have to think a lot about action, freedom, grace, virtue, will, intellect, object, intention and such things. But grace has been looming large lately.

So, yesterday, while I was thinking about how the indwelling Spirit and/or infused charity might or might not affect human freedom to act, it occured to me that I should go to Mass. It happened to occur to me at 11:45. There is a noon Mass at my parish, a mere 4 blocks away. So I went. Having identified the end (going to Mass), I chose the means (bike). I could have walked (would have been late, by the time I found shoes and things) or could have driven (ick: fossil fuels), but I opted for the bike. (The bike, by the way, is relatively new to me. I was seeking a used one on Craig's List, but once I mentioned the desire to friends around here, I was actually given two bikes. One actually works. I rode that one to Mass.)

So, for the first time, I rode my bike to Mass. Now, here's how this works. The ride to the end of my street is relatively flat, without real event. I make a left turn and then I have three blocks to go to the church. Just to give you an idea of where we are going here, the 2nd street over is called Hilltop. So, I make the left turn and begin to radically downshift. I am working my way up the hill. The thoughts go through my head something like this: this isn't so bad, just downshift; oh, God, what if one of my students sees me struggling up this hill?; what if one of my colleagues sees?; just focus; just breathe; wait a minute, just get off the bike and walk it up the hill; okay, would it be more embarassing to be seen struggling like this or to be seen walking the bike up the hill?; I think I'd be going faster walking; hmm... Hilltop isn't quite the top of the hill after all, but it is flattening out; hey, I made it!

I lock up the bike and get into Mass. I hear a homily (not good) and receive Jesus (real presence, real grace). Then I get on the bike to head home. Not having really thought about hills and gravity and all that very much, I had a vague sense that this was going to be exhausting. As you've probably guessed: not so much. I of course flew back home with almost no effort on my part. In fact, at a certain point, I pedaled a bit but realized that I wasn't keeping up with gravity: my effort was no real effort at all, and it added nothing to the result.

As you can imagine, I was thinking a lot about the analogies to God's grace and human effort. The fact that I received eucharist between the trips up and down the hill was a little too tempting a narrative. We work so hard to little avail on our own; but with God's grace it gets so easy that it seems to be effortless on our part. But that doesn't exactly seem right, either. God's grace goes before, behind, within our efforts. It makes our efforts possible. Without God's grace, at just the right time, I don't think I would have even thought to go to Mass.

But I still like the idea that the moral life, with God's grace, is like riding a bike downhill. Maybe that's just because I think life would be a lot better if it were always like riding a bike downhill. Then again, it's nice to do a little pedaling occasionally, too.

Grace abounds

This weekend was a rather sacramental weekend for me. I went to a baptism on Saturday and a First Communion on Sunday, both featuring the children of colleagues. The First Communion was at a parish Mass that also happened to include 3 baptisms. So, it feels as though, well, grace is abounding.

Grace often comes abounding in unexpected ways. You have to love it when, for instance (to exaggerate just a tad for the poetry of it), the child is being signed with the cross and she screams as though she is being nailed to one. Or when we pray for her to be freed from her worldly attachments and, again, she screams with pain. What a disturbing but wonderful reminder of what it is we are doing to our children when we baptize them.

I'm still not sure what to make of the First Communion. I never really got an explanation for this, but it was just the one kid for First Communion, but at a parish celebration of the feast of Corpus Christi. So it felt a little strange. I don't think I've ever been to a child's First Communion where it was just the one kid. It made it oddly special and especially odd. But the priest imported especially for the occasion did a pretty nice job with the homily. Again, grace abounds.

Both occasions were followed by festivities: food, drink, community, children running around with joy and laughter. I feel very blessed by the community I have fallen into here. It is almost unbelievable to me that I feel as much at home here as I do, having been here less than a year. A wonderful, strangely appropriate thing for me to realize on the feast of Corpus Christi, my hometown in more than one way.

Spellbound

OK, I admit it: I'm sitting here watching the 2007 national spelling bee LIVE! And I don't see myself turning away from it anytime soon.

A kid just got the word punaise. He asked for the definition, which is bedbug, i.e. punaise is another word for a bedbug. When the announce said the word, he said "Oh my gosh!" When he got the definition, he said "I'd like bedbug better." When he spelled the word correctly, he asked "Really?" You gotta love these kids.

Another kid got the word pelorus, which is a navigational tool (I totally would have spelled it polaris). The kid asked for the etymology and received the answer "unknown." No help there. Or in the low voiceover, "Unless she happened to have studied this word, she just really isn't getting any clues here." She misspelled it.

I also love the ABC/ESPN sports commentary on the whole thing, the soft voiceover with things like "As he approaches the mike, you can see that he's a first-timer here, but the confidence will come over time." We also get the little bios of these kids, completely parallel to world champion athletes. It's really kind of cool. In a geeky kind of way.

I also love that most of them, when they get a word wrong and are given the correct spelling, say "thank you." It's probably mostly training, but it's so respectful and nice.

Did you know that cilice is a fancy word for hair shirt? Or a genizah is a storeroom in a synagogue for damaged or defective books and other sacred artifacts? Any takers for bewusstseinslage?

OK, it's down to the last one. He has to spell one last word correctly to win. He got serrefine, which means a small forceps for clamping a blood vessel. It was pretty clear that knew it as soon as he heard the word. He nailed it. He's the champion, and the trophy is bigger than he is. Evan O'Dorney from California. Congratulations, Evan!

One final note, because I know that some of my readers are interested in such things: he's homeschooled. And he's the third homeschooler to win the national spelling bee.

Sin and the Spirit

This morning at church, I found myself sitting with some friends. During the Our Father (that's the Lord's Prayer, for any of you Protestants reading), their very sweet 5 year old daughter turned to me with what must have been a conspiratorial delight. The thing is, it came off more as something of a gleeful malice. Taking delight in the hissy-ness of the word, she grinned her evil grin and simply said, "Tresssssspassssssessssss!" That's trespasses for those of you who can't read hissy-ness, and sins or debts for those of you who need a Protestant translation.

It certainly brought to mind Augustine: I was in love with ruin, with my own decay ... my sin was loathsome, and I loved it. Nothing like seeing a five year old seeming to delight in the concept of sin to remind you how messed up we all are.

Send forth your Spirit, O Lord, and renew the face of the earth. Enkindle in us your holy spirit, that we might love righteousness and reject sin, love one another and reject the riches and seductions of this world.

Being, Time, and Doggie Poop

Heidigger Taylor Cooldog, a permanent member of the Coolclan, has temporarily taken up residence with me. So has Sweetheart, the gerbil. But this post is more about Digger. Perhaps it is a failure of imagination on my part, but it just seems to me that dogs are more fun than gerbils, and far less likely to pee in your hand.

Digger is an interesting addition to my life. The children of my friends are in love with Digger and are already lobbying for me either to refuse to give him back or to replace him with a dog of my own immediately. I've loved having him as an excuse to walk my neighborhood. We've met more neighbors together in the last 10 days than I've met all year on my own. And, in a somewhat mixed adventure, Digger (chick magnet that he is) got us invited to a college party with a couple of my former students. We just stopped in for a minute to say hi, but I think Digger was the life of the party.

Now, I'm not given to the existential questions, really. But it is an interesting thing to realize that you are one of two beings connected by a leash and to wonder just a little bit why you get to be the one who holds the leash rather than having it around your neck. Of course, any sense of superiority that earns you quickly disappears once you find yourself picking up the excrement of the being at the other end of the leash. One does begin to wonder who is in charge here.

It has been fun having Digger here. I'll miss him when he goes. I may have to start looking for the perfect medium-sized low-shed dog for me soon.

Blessed are the blahblahblah

There are so many great moments when you give oral finals. Like the student who responded to a question about how Mary embodies the theological virtues with "Well, that would be so awkward--to get pregnant when you're a virgin. You would have to have some major faith to get you through that!"

But I think my favorite was the student who responded to the question about how Matthew's gospel asks the Christian community to balance the call to moral righteousness and the call to forgiveness. She looked me right in the eye and said, "Well, what you have to understand is that, in Matthew's gospel, moral righteousness is so important. But then, also, nothing is more important than forgiveness. So, the most important thing is to balance both." Seriously, she looked at me like she just reported that she cured cancer. I decided to mercifully give her a prompt: "Are there any specific texts that might help us figure out that balance?" She paused, then said, "Well, I think the whole part about blessed are the blahblahblah, because that shows that God blesses and forgives the people who ... well, pretty much everyone."

Indeed, blessed are the blahblahblah, for theirs is the kingdom of a vague, unspecified god, who suggests (but certainly would never demand) that they develop whatever virtues seem appropriate to them. Rejoice and be glad!

Keg Party!!!

Yes, I went to a keg party last night. But let me be clear: not with MY students.

It really was quite innocent. I was walking home from work and as I passed my next door neighbors' house, there were a bunch of guys on the porch. Matt, the one that I've had several conversations with throughout the year, called out that they were celebrating: he and one other guy from the house were graduating. He offered me a beer. I stepped up onto the porch and accepted. He introduced me to a few of the other guys. We chatted for several minutes and watched the rest of the party play beer pong.

Now, did I mention this was about 7pm and there was loud music coming from the Jeep parked in the driveway between our two houses? I was thinking throughout the conversation of nice ways to say things like "Do you think this can be over by a decent hour?" and "Can you guys (1) pick up any trash that blows into my yard and (2) stop driving through my backyard?" (The last one is a long story, but we did cover that one.)

All of a sudden, a neighbor, who is also a colleague of mine, appeared at the steps. She was ... well, let's choose words like direct and clear and then a few like passionate and animated. She let them know that the music would be reduced significantly right then and would be completely inaudible by 10pm or she would call the cops.

Weirdest thing: she didn't acknowledge me at all. She either assumed she would not know anyone there and so didn't look and didn't see me. OR she recognized me before she approached and chose very consciously to ignore me. It's very strange not to know which one.

It's also, of course, very mild and innocent, but somehow secretly thrilling to wonder what my students would think if I told them that I went to a keg party last night.

And, by the way, I spent the rest of the evening with some friends and came home after 11. All was quiet. There are real benefits to having neighbors like that, whether she saw me or not.

Crossing the Line

Now, in order to appreciate fully the thrill that I'm attempting to share with you, it is crucial for you to understand that I am a Texan. I grew up in a place where you had to drive about 5 hours to get out of the state; more like 8 if you wanted someone to speak English when you got there. Getting out of state is a major enterprise.

Not so in my current location, but that doesn't matter much. Tonight, I drove to another state just to have dinner with some friends. That makes me strangely happy. Of course, they are also good friends, and they make me happy, too.

They also reminded me that I need to blog more. It's nice to be reminded that you have readers, and yes, I will try to blog more.

Summertime should help.

Poetic moments

Last week, I had occasion to hear Galway Kinnell read some of his poetry, which was wonderful. Here are a couple gems.

He has a poem entitled "Prayer." Last week, as I was finishing up Augustine's Confessions with my students, trying to get them to see that the whole of life is about our yearning for God, about our learning to want God and to want everything else only in light of God, this poem struck me as proof of something a professor of mine used to say, that every theologian is a failed poet. Here it is in its entirety.

Whatever happens. Whatever
what is is is what
I want. Only that. But that.

And just a line from a longer poem ("The Fundamental Project of Technology") that struck me when I heard it and has come back to me often: "Awareness of ignorance is as devout / as knowledge of knowledge. Or more so."

May God have mercy on us for what we know, for what we fail to know.

The Measure of Truth

So, the conversation around the water cooler these days is whether, to borrow a line from a Disney movie, all dogs go to heaven. Actually, it's not really about dogs, but about all of creation. Here's the question: are only human beings redeemed, or is all of creation redeemed?

A certain rather famous Dominican, drawing from Aristotelian biology, reflected that, although all animals have souls, only the human animal has a rational soul, and only rational souls can subsist without bodies. Ergo, sorry Fido.

But, some of us have argued, what about the lion lying down with the lamb? Isn't there something about this famous eschatological image that seems to promise that animals are part of the restoration? Isn't all creation groaning, yearning for its healing?

No, the Thomists have answered. Those are metaphors. What are you, a fundamentalist?

Well, I think that if it comes down to Thomas or the Bible, I will take the Bible. But I have to say that I like to image that they are more sympatico than not.

It's also more than a little disconcerting--and I've witnessed it twice now--to watch a Thomist completely dismiss the Bible insofar as it may seem to be different from Thomas. It's clear what the measure of truth is around here.

Guest Room Ready

I've been needing to update for a while, especially given the sad nature of the last post. Great news: a spot in a group home opened up, and Paul moved in there about 10 days ago.

Funny thing, when I took a little tour of the place, it seems like it's about half full. Their capacity is 16 and they have "7 or 8" people living there now. But there have been no such beds for six months. I can't make sense of that.

So, if you're a potential visitor, I now have a guest room available for you.

A Brother of Such Tears

I'm clearly a blog-slacker.

Briefly: Paul is back. He begged his way back in on Monday night. "Please... I'm your brother... It's so hard living on the streets. Please."

It's been a difficult week. You get used to the constant crunch of Fruit Loops underfoot in the kitchen. You get used to the doors being left open even though it's below freezing outside. You even get used to the constant anti-social presence, and to money disappearing out of your wallet when you're stupid enough to leave it lying on your dresser instead of well hidden among your underwear. But you never get used to the irrationality; you always assume that there is a point to the carelessness or the anger, as there would be with someone else. It's hard to get away from the sense, evident to us since Aristotle at least, that humans always act for an end.

Better Augustine than Aristotle tonight, though. In City of God, he is considering what an astounding gift the intellect is, but he pauses to reflect upon those in whom the gift is shattered. He says that when we stop and really reflect on what such a loss means for a person, we almost cannot hold back our tears. And then he adds: "in fact, we cannot."

Surely that's right. But it also fails to name adequately what that loss is.

I have felt like crying all day, though I haven't really. But I woke up to Paul moaning and sobbing loudly enough to wake me. He either could not or would not give a reason for his crying, but it went on for at least two hours this morning before I went to church and then out to lunch with friends. I came back 3 or 4 hours later and the crying had stopped, but pretty recently from the look of his face.

I have a line from the Confessions, slightly twisted, echoing in my head tonight. It is, oddly, at a point where Monica has considered kicking Augustine out of her house because he is a Manichee (or "a dirty rotten heretic," as I like to tell my students). But she has sought the wisdom of a former heretic, now bishop, who advises her that Augustine will think his way out of the heresy eventually. He knows that she has cried and agonized over her son's salvation. It is his line to her that is echoing in my head, with slight modification: it is not possible that a brother of such tears should perish.

I don't know that his perishing is what I'm afraid of, but the assurance that he won't gives me hope nonetheless.

Off again, on again

Two days ago, Paul told me that he was going off the meds. Apparently, the Baptists at the rescue mission don’t believe in meds, they believe in Jesus. Paul is interested in a discipleship group they have and—at least the way he understands it—he has to get off of the meds to get in the group. So that’s his goal.

Or it was, until today. This morning, when I asked how that whole thing was going, he told me he was back on the meds. I asked him if I had talked him into taking them again (I had tried quite hard to do so, to my apparent failure). He said no, so I asked him what changed his mind. He told me that he promised someone that he would stay on them. I’m wondering who could possibly have managed to get this promise from him, so I ask. He looks at me like I’ve asked the stupidest question ever, with the most obvious answer, and then responds in a tone that says the same, “One of the voices.”

Why didn’t I think of that?

(Let me note as an aside here that I have no idea what the folks at the rescue mission are really saying about the meds. I actually suspect that they are aware of their limitations to help change the lives of folks like Paul with severe persistent mental illnesses through hard work, clean living, and prayer, and so they don't tend to accept folks like Paul into their programs designed to get people back on their feet again. Regardless, I just want to be clear that I have all my info from Paul, so I'm not judging those folks or their program in any way on his word alone.)

Not so sweet

So, the 2007 Sugar Bowl is Notre Dame's NINTH consecutive bowl loss.

Ninth. (9th!)

We haven't won a bowl game since Jan 1, 1994.

And we lost tonight by 27 points.

What's wrong with the Irish?

:(