Biden’ Our Time

“Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity…”
W.B. Yeats

No, the Center cannot hold. We must stand for something.

“If you be neither hot nor cold, I will spit you out of my mouth” (Revelations 3:16).

These past several years we have seen the world turned every way but right. The old maxim, divide and conquer, has proven to be so right. Neighbor against neighbor, child against parent, teacher against student, nation against nation and leaders against their own people. There is an Evil creeping amongst us and It has turned everything upside down. What was good is now bad. What was strength is now weakness. Loyalty has fallen victim to ambition. We have been betrayed.

Hopefully, and I believe it to be so, more and more of us Americans and people throughout the world are realizing that something has gone terribly wrong with our countries and our cultures. And of our common sense and common decency. It has gone beyond mere politics. Just today on a local web site for our little town of Staunton, VA someone posted that they would like to slap the face everyone that wont get the Covid injection. This makes about as much sense as saying that although they buckle up every time they get into their cars they would assault everyone choosing not to wear a seat belt. If an injection or a seat belt makes you safe, how does someone choosing differently impact you? It makes no sense. But, common sense, discernment and civility have been increasingly cast to the wind for some time now.

In the biography of Don Bosco by Teresio Bosco, (click) Audio bio of Don Bosco) it is written, “God, it is said, sends the world saints when they are most needed-not men and women of “general holiness,” but specialized experts who fit into the pattern of the times and are capable of giving God’s tone to their century”.

Surely, these times cry out for another Fulton Sheen or Billy Graham. Even the witty wisdom of Will Rogers would serve us well: “It isn’t what we don’t know that gives us trouble, it’s what we know that ain’t so”. Or, “ What the country needs is dirtier fingernails and cleaner minds”. (Brainyquote.com)

We have bid our time for long enough. This past week has shown us that each and every one of us is disposable and expendable. We are at the brink. To put it another way: (click) Sympathy for the Devil.

Pray. Pray that God will not let us continue to go astray but will send us a modern-day saint that will guide us back to Him.

Holy Week

Madrid Balconies

From unspeakable sorrow can come beauty.

In April, 2006, I flew to Madrid, Spain to be with my son and daughter-in-law following the still–born death of their daughter, my first grandchild. It was Holy Week.

There are some sorrows that only can be described as profound; ones that leave you speechless and empty.  Or, sometimes, in rage. This death, this loss of a purely innocent life, was such a sorrow. In the midst of this ancient city, I asked God to be with me, to help me understand and to save me from bitterness.

As Good Friday night fell, I walked through the narrow, darkened streets from my son’s apartment back to my hotel. Through the Plaza Mejor and down the winding Calle de Atocha, I suddenly found myself within a mass of people. Everyone was emptying the narrow street and moving onto the sidewalk. I had no choice but to move with them until I was able to find a small spot just across the street from Parroquia de Santa Cruz, the Church of the Holy Cross. The street outside of the church was filled with a formation of white robed, black-hooded figures carrying lit torches. I had never seen anything like this, but being American it conjured up unsettling images; I truly did not know what to expect.

Holy Week Procession, Church of Santa Cruz, Madrid

Suddenly, the church doors opened. Another robed, hooded figure, carrying a large staff, appeared in the church doorway. He banged his staff on the steps and the robed column in the street came to attention. Another tap of his staff and he and the procession behind him started to move from the church toward the street below. This group was similarly robed and hooded and was carrying a platform supported by long poles. Atop this platform was a statue, but, because of the darkness, I could not determine of whom. The procession came to a halt in the street and the platform was lowered. After a few minutes and some prayers (spoken in Spanish, of course) the leader tapped the staff once. The figures lifted the platform to waist height. Another tap and the platform went to shoulder height. No other sound could be heard along the entire street. Two taps more and the procession started toward Plaza Mejor. Of the statue, all I could determine was that it was clad in black.

Most of the crowd waited in front of the church, Santa Cruz. With nothing waiting for me except a silent hotel room, I, too, stayed, unsure of what for. The tap of the processional leader’s staff could be heard echoing through those dark and still silent streets, first sounding more and more distant and then becoming closer. Whatever was coming, it was coming soon. Gradually, flickering torch light could be seen at the far end of Atocha, approaching our position in front of the church. I took out my camera and moved into a position to better see what was being carried by these silent, dark-robed, anonymous marchers. Perhaps it was the expectation, but through the absolute silence that filled the street I could feel something welling up inside of me. Fear, sadness, grief?  I was not sure.

And, then it, rather she, was there. Atop this heavy wooden platform was a life-sized figure of the Blessed Virgin, depicted as the Mother of Seven Sorrows, adorned in black velvet with silver threading. Into the church she was carried. I moved on, but knowing something had happened that I could not express, even within myself.

The following day, returning back to my son’s apartment, I again entered Calle Atocha knowing I would go into the church and see the statue up close. On the steps of the church, against the wooden doors, sat two beggars, gypsies, actually. I had been cautioned about gypsies, but their presence did not concern me. Inside, I found an alcove, enclosed by an iron gate, in which was the statue I saw the night before.

I have been a Catholic my entire life and have seen thousands of statues and religious icons of every sort. But this, this was no ordinary statue. Beyond the absolutely stunningly beautiful garments was the face. The face of Mary. A face of unspeakable sorrow, a face of grief so profound and complete that it could only be brought about by the death of a purely innocent child.  She took my grief onto herself. But, something else would happen that will stay with me – forever.

Call it imagination. Or transference. But, on the way out of the church I took closer notice of the two beggar/gypsy women. One was older than the other and I would later learn that they were mother and daughter. I gave each a small coin and went to my family. Later that afternoon, returning to the hotel, I again came to the church. The women were still there, sitting against the doors, bundled against the chilly spring wind. A quick visit inside and on the way out, as I passed them, I noticed their faces. The mother was perhaps 40. The daughter – I had to turn around and go back to view the Blessed Mother. Outside, again, it was true what I had thought. The faces were the same. Several days of visits further confirmed this. After about a week, my daughter-in-law asked to go for a walk. Of course, we went to the church that was only about a 10 minute stroll from her home. The women, as expected, were again on the church steps, their “spot”.  I mentioned to my daughter-in-law my observation about the younger girl.

A week or so later, before returning back home, I asked that my daughter-in-law accompany me to the church to say a prayer – for healing, both emotional and physical. After our prayers I asked that she, since she was a native Spanish speaker, interpret something for me to the women. I explained how I was struck by the similarities in the faces and how interesting it was that it was this particular church, with that particular statue, that they chose to be close to. They agreed to have their pictures taken (something that is very unusual for them). The girl was, Magdalena.

Magdalena, Church of Santa Cruz, Madrid

Two years later, when my daughter-in-law had to return to Madrid for business, she paid a visit to Santa Cruz. There was Magdalena. She asked if I was there, too. When told no, I was back in the U.S., she got up and went into the church. When she came back out she handed my daughter-in-law a picture and said, “I will never forget your father”. The picture was a photo of the statue and the faces are still identical.

That Easter of 2006 was, indeed, a Holy Week. And I will always remember to look closely at what is in front of me. It just may be a face from heaven.

For those that are suffering or grieving this Easter, please know that you are remembered and not alone.