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Last Meal

Last Meal

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On Sunday the Octave of Easter ended, though the season of Easter will last until Pentecost. But for me the celebration truly came to an end when I ate the last turkey sandwich made from Easter dinner leftovers. 

Sometimes I forgo the turkey on Easter, serving only ham along with the deviled eggs, asparagus, ambrosia salad and potatoes au gratin. But this year’s crowd required reinforcements. I was happy to oblige with a 23-pound bird. That’s a lot of turkey sandwiches — and I have relished every one.

You have to understand that if I were offered a last meal, I wouldn’t hesitate. It would be a turkey sandwich made from all white meat, thinly sliced, on white bread (which I usually avoid) and mayonnaise (ditto). If I’m feeling virtuous I garnish with lettuce … but I usually don’t feel virtuous. 

I would illustrate this post with a picture of a turkey sandwich, but alas, the turkey sandwiches are gone. A glass of iced tea will have to do. It, of course, would be the last beverage. 

Semana Santa

Semana Santa

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It’s Holy Week and I’m imagining I’m back in Sevilla, where Semana Santa is a very big deal. This is what I love best about traveling. That even though I must leave the place, the place never leaves me. It stays in the angle of the light, the heat of the day rising up off the paving stones, the expressions of the faithful waiting patiently for the procession.

The taste of Semana Santa that we experienced in last June’s Corpus Christi celebration is what I’m remembering, and I’m multiplying it by, oh, a hundred at least. The religious floats are much larger, the crowds much denser, the people more serious and pious than they were last summer (and they were seriously pious then). 

It’s the holiest week of the year for Catholics, and in Sevilla, that’s abundantly clear.

A Replacement?

A Replacement?

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In class this week we talked about good and evil, the decline of religion and the ascendancy of the “spiritual.” A question the professor threw out to us then that I’m only answering now is, what is religion’s greatest potential alternative? What’s replacing it?

There’s some irony in answering this question in a social science class because in many ways, the answer to these questions is … social science. 

Psychology and social psychology have not answered all the questions, but they have provided close-enough answers that the influence of religion has paled. They have answered the problem of evil with the medicalization of evil, a belief that much wrongdoing is due to illness rather than sin. Hard to compete with that. 

The Color Rose

The Color Rose

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It’s a day of rejoicing and the beating of wings. The swallows return to the mission of San Juan Capistrano, and the church celebrates Laetare Sunday, the midpoint of Lent, with its foretaste of joy.

At a morning retreat yesterday, I spoke with a woman who I often see on Sunday but have never met. She walks with some difficulty but always seems cheerful. Emboldened by the conviviality of the day, I reached out and commented on the lovely heathery rose color of her wool suit.

“I’m celebrating Laetare Sunday a day early,” she said, laughing. Something about her deliberate choice of this color, about her caring that much, is what I’ll remember most about the event.

I went to the retreat expecting wisdom from on high, from the prepared remarks of speakers. Instead, it was an ordinary interaction that made the day.

Michael Gerson: 1964 — 2022

Michael Gerson: 1964 — 2022

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The world lost a great columnist and thinker yesterday when Michael Gerson died of cancer. Though I’m not an evangelical Christian Republican, I fond much to admire in Gerson’s columns, especially the ones about faith.  I was not the only one. The tributes are flowing in. 

In 2019 he spoke at Washington National Cathedral about his battle with depression, which had hospitalized him only weeks before. Though he credited medication for helping him turn the corner, he also spoke of “other forms of comfort,” including “the wild hope of a living God.” 

Those who believe, he said, know that life is not a farce but a pilgrimage, that hope can “grow within us, like a seed,” and “transcendence sparks and crackles around us … if we open ourselves to seeing it.”

Gerson didn’t just write about heavy stuff, though. Last summer he described his new Havanese, Jack, as a “living, yipping, randomly peeing antidepressant” and declared “I’ll never live without a dog again.” He never did — but now Jack, his family, friends and readers will have to live without Gerson.

I’ve written very few fan letters in my life, but last May I wrote one to Michael Gerson. He’d written a column that acknowledged a return of the cancer he knew would end his life, and I wanted to let him know that one reader, this reader, had taken much comfort from his words. He was kind enough to write me back. But it’s in his published words that I will remember him best, like this one from 2017:

If the resurrection is real, death’s hold is broken. …  It is possible to live lightly, even in the face of death — not by becoming hard and strong, but through a confident perseverance. Because cynicism is the failure of patience. Because Good Friday does not have the final word.

Saints and Souls

Saints and Souls

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The poet John Keats described autumn as the “season of mist and mellow fruitfulness.” But this is one of the first foggy mornings we’ve had all fall. 

It’s a lovely one, though, softening the vivid yellows of the tulip poplar leaves, making it difficult to see the houses across the backyard, let alone across the street.

Fog is atmospheric and perfect for this morning, post ghosts and goblins, the feast of all saints and the eve of all souls. 

Sacred Journey

Sacred Journey

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When I read the obituaries of Frederick Buechner last week — he died August 15 at the age of 96 — I wondered how I had missed him all these years. He is the author of 39 books — novels, memoirs, sermons and other nonfiction — and is known for encouraging people to listen to their lives. 

“Listen to what happens to you everyday,” he said, because it is “a kind of praying.” The “hurly-burly of life” often drowns out that sound, he continues. But for that reason, we must pay even closer attention.We find our purpose, he wrote, in the place where “deep gladness meets the world’s need.”

Some spend most of their lives looking for this place, this intersection. Others find it early on. And some, of course, never find it at all. 

But it’s good to learn about one who not only found it for himself, but who took the time to share it with others. I’ve already ordered one of Buechner’s books, the library being short on his work. The Sacred Journey arrives next week. 

Orthodox Easter

Orthodox Easter

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They entered the ornate cathedrals, slogging through rubble to get there. One photograph shows a country church and a lone woman entering with a basket. Another shows a hastily assembled altar, soldiers in fatigues. 

It was Easter yesterday in Ukraine, but the shelling and the funerals continue. The message of a suffering savior and a glorious resurrection, the promise of eternal life, was delivered amidst the smoke and the terror. 

For us,  the war in Ukraine is a story we read in a newspaper, a report we watch on television. Switch off the screen, put down the paper … and it goes away.

For the brave souls in Ukraine, there is no pause, no end to the horror. For them, for now, war is life.  

The Bells of Healy Hall

The Bells of Healy Hall

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If I’m lucky, I arrive on the Georgetown campus in time to hear the bells of Healy Hall toll the Angelus. It makes an already timeless experience feel even more so.

The bells were tolling last night as I walked to class past the old stone buildings through a cool and soggy evening. 

I thought about a passage from Thomas Cahill’s Mysteries of the Middle Ages, which details a 1219 visit between Saint Francis of Assisi and Sultan al-Malik al-Kamil of Egypt, Palestine and Syria. 

Some scholars think that it was then that Francis came up with the idea of tolling the Angelus bells at 6 a.m., noon and 6 p.m. — the Christian version of the Muslim call to prayer. A likely story, and maybe just that, a story. But it was easy to believe it when the bells were ringing. 

Annunciation

Annunciation

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In class this week, the professor said a scene from the novel we’re reading was an annunciation. I pictured a medieval painting, the rich oil pigments darkened from the smoke of candles burning. I pictured the painting hanging on the wall of a great cathedral,  cold stone and buttresses, echoes of chant and plainsong.

Today is the feast of the annunciation, the day when the Virgin Mary learned she was bearing the son of God via a message from the angel Gabriel. 

I see a painting again, Gabriel in rich reds, his white wings shining. I see Mary’s head inclined toward the light, gold halo above her head. 

Annunciation: an announcement, a message, a few words that can change your life. 

(The Annunciation depicted in a 15th century tapestry. Photo courtesy the Art Institute of Chicago.)