27 February 2011

"‚ÄéThou spongy flap-mouthed clotpole!"

With just a click of the mouse, Shakespeare can insult you, too.

24 February 2011


I will say this last word: if the first edition of the Catholic Catechism contained a definition of lying that would have completely exonerated Lila Rose's actions, then the doctrine on justified deception is by no means a settled matter, and people need to stop being so dogmatic (and alarmist) about it.

21 February 2011

I suspect the only reason this woman's children are well-adjusted is because they had a father who wasn't insane.

18 February 2011

Defending Summorum Pontificum

The new instruction, set to come out in a few short weeks, is said to render the Motu Proprio practically null. This is no alarmist rhetoric, but a real threat from those in the know. Many bishops remain disobedient by refusing to fully implement the MP, and the new instruction could further empower them in their refusal.

I hope you'll sign the petition defending Summorum Pontificum.

Mary, Protectress

Claire Hill, a 3-year-old Australian girl blessed by the Pope in 2008, was accidentally run over by a truck driven by her own father last Tuesday--and survived.
When he saw the three-year-old lodged under the dual rear wheels of the four-tonne vehicle, Mr Hill was certain that Claire was dead.

But this morning she is likely to be sent home from hospital with little more than grazes and minor bruising.

The tyre marks were yesterday visible on her tiny abdomen, but she astounded her parents and medical specialists by surviving the ordeal without internal injuries, broken bones or lasting physical damage of any kind.

As Claire lay in bed at Sydney Children's Hospital with a Catholic prayer book, red-eyed but smiling and talkative, she said it was her dad and God that saved her.

Her father struggled to find an explanation for his youngest child's remarkable escape.

"I couldn't think anything other than a guardian angel was holding that bus up and keeping the weight off her," Mr Hill said.

"I jumped in the driver's seat and just rolled forward," he said. "And Claire opened the door and hopped out of the car, and the next thing I know, someone's banging on the bus. I went to look and saw Claire lying underneath the two back wheels, pinned to the ground. At that moment I thought: 'God, I've killed her.' "

His wife, Sue Hill, a mother of 11, was inclined to believe in the power of prayer.

"I had put a miraculous medal [of Mother Mary] on her just an hour before," she said. As Claire lay at the Woolworths service station in Nowra, Mrs Hill told her to pray to Jesus and Mother Mary.

In the hours that followed, family and friends on the South Coast and beyond reached out through church and social networks to draw hundreds more into prayer, she said.

"All my children rang all these other families," Mrs Hill said. "My sister rang the Mother Teresa nuns in Sydney."
Hail Mary, full of grace!

02 February 2011

When Drab Is a Favorite Color

Anthony Esolen on beauty:
A man who wishes to remain an infidel, Lewis later said, had better be careful what he reads. I know this from my experience as a teacher of ancient, medieval, and Renaissance literature. Almost before a student has any real sense of the complexity of thought to be found in Augustine or Boethius or Dante or Milton, he is confronted with the dangerous power of beauty....Satan is surprised by two stripling cherubs as he tries to whisper evil dreams into the mind of the sleeping Eve; but worse than his being caught is his confrontation with angels still holy, and therefore still lovely:
So spake the cherub, and his grave rebuke,
Severe in youthful beauty, added grace
Invincible; abasht the devil stood
And felt how awful goodness is.
The student finds himself at such moments -- and loses himself in wonder.

The converse is also true. If the sudden irruption of beauty threatens to pull heaven down about us, then one good way to ensure that a human soul will be armored against the divine is to cultivate the drab, the slipshod, and the ugly.... We could consider the folk ballads of old, like the lilting Loch Lomond -- arranged in subtle four-part harmony for community singing clubs that once filled the halls of many a town with music. Then we could compare them with our contemporary counterpart, those sneers and sublingual grunts mass marketed for teenage boys wearing their pants around their knees, like people suffering from some hitherto unknown bone disease.
When a lost soul wanders into the silence of one of our churches, it should not feel to him as if he had walked into a doctor's waiting room, or the department of motor vehicles, but into a new world, mysterious and true.