An examen for the present moment

My parish has been running a reading and discussion group called “Theology Untapped.” We meet monthly and over the summer we have been working our way through Pope Leo’s new encyclical, Magnifica Humanitas. The encyclical is long (45,000 words!) and the conversations could only begin to explore the theologically rich and pastorally challenging landscape that the pope walks us through. The conversations provoked some passionate, almost heated, conversations. I had some thoughts (which were shared in the parish bulletin this weekend)…

While it is tempting to call this the encyclical about artificial intelligence (AI), Magnifica Humanitas’ principal focus is the inviolable dignity of each and every human person as a cherished daughter or son of God. AI may be the current challenge to our humanity, but there have been others in our history —  slavery —  and there will undoubtedly be more in our future. How do we respond to current technological developments, including AI, in the light of faith and two thousand years of Catholic social teaching? What serves our sisters and brothers, particularly those unseen and those living at the margins, and what strips them of their humanity, turning them into living, breathing widgets, where productivity becomes the principal measure of a person’s worth. That’s the question Pope Leo is asking in Magnifica Humanitas, and it is the question that’s driven some intense conversations among those coming to Theology Untapped.

How are we to respond, as individuals and as a parish community? As valuable as the discussions have been, we kept returning to the need for more than just words in response to the present moment. Yet it can seem daunting, what can one or two of us do to change the course of the world? Yet, as the pastor reminded us, the work of twelve fishermen arguably changed the world. Like the loaves and the fishes, what we bring to the table can seem like very little, but God can multiply our efforts. 

Pope Leo does not let us off the hook either. [sorry, I could not resist the pun!] Near the end of the encyclical he writes: “At this point, however, a subtle temptation may emerge, namely the thought that the problems are too big and we are too small, and that our choices, therefore, cannot make a difference. This is a polite form of resignation…We all have our own areas for action, and it is precisely there — and nowhere else — that we must choose whether to fuel the mentality of force (even if only through indifference, cynicism, lies or hatred), or to preserve the mindset of peace (with truth, moderation, closeness and care).” (Magnifica Humanitas 212)

Pope Leo suggests five ways we might navigate the present challenges: “the need to disarm words, building peace through justice, adopting the perspective of victims, cultivating a healthy realism and reviving dialogue and multilateralism.”

One of those attending the last meeting said he was so moved by Pope Leo’s challenge that he was committing to reading that one paragraph of Magnifica Humanitas (212) every day. I was inspired to do similarly, making of Pope Leo’s path an examen: How have I wielded my words? How have I worked for justice and so for peace? Have I had eyes for the poor, have I sought out such encounters? Am I listening closely to all the world and not hiding within my own bubble? What might I do going forward — tomorrow — to walk more closely with Christ on these paths?

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Want to try a bit of an Ignatian exercise? Begin by reading Jesus’ challenge in Matthew’s Gospel (Matt 25:34-40). Imagine yourself in the crowd, what do you hear? Now skip to the end of Magnifica Humanitas and read the section titled “We can all do our part” (paragraphs 212-228). Imagine sitting down with Christ and having a conversation about the five paths and your next steps. 

They have washed their robes

 

[T]hey have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb — Revelations 7:14b

My sharpest memory of last Saturday's epic fall on the altar is the sound of the water cruet breaking. It sounded like I imagine a hand grenade might, more of an explosion than a shattering crash. I remember sitting on the floor trying to process what had just happened. Was I hurt? Nothing hurt. But the blood on the hem of my alb suggested there was damage somewhere to someone. 

Shock is a funny thing. Sitting in the small chapel behind the main altar I was still trying to figure out how I had managed to get a spatter of blood on the hem of the alb, when I turned over my wrist to see the blood soaking through my sleeve. Right. My right wrist was dripping. And now it hurt. 

Once the immediate things were dealt with, and the wrist wrapped up so that I wouldn't drip on anything else, I took off the alb. I didn't notice the wine that had soaked the left side. (Really, shock is quite a funny thing.) One of the other servers drove me home, and we wondered if the alb was salvageable. 

When I discovered the next morning that I would need to get out both blood and all that red wine, it looked dismal. But if the problem could be solved, I have just the right mix of people in my life to help me tackle it: chemists, artists, Episcopal church women, priests and deacons, monks, and mothers. I put the robe in cold water to soak and posted my dilemna to Facebook. My friends did not disappoint! 

I learned about WineAway (which might also remove blood.) Would salt do it? Club soda?  Peroxide? Oxiclean? Would that take out the wine, too? Or maybe the Carthusian novice master was right and the water would be enough?

I ran the alb through a rinse cycle in cold water. I clearly am not as holy as a Carthusian. The blood stains are all still there.  (Perhaps I should have used holy water?) The violet wine stains, though, have utterly vanished. On to the Oxiclean. I made a paste of the stuff and worked it into the stains using a toothbrush. I let the alb sit overnight on an old white towel. By morning some of the smaller stains were totally gone! I rinsed and repeated, fascinated to watch the stain move from the alb into the towel, like paper chromatography. Three rounds — how Trinitarian — and the stains seemed gone. A final wash, and I hung it up to dry. 

My alb, once awash in (literal) blood and in the wine intended to become (literally) the blood of the Lamb was white. It feels like a small miracle.

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Larger miracles. There are a lot of moving parts in your hand, and the glass managed to miss them all. 

All the advice reminds you not to put the stained item in the dryer or iron it before you are sure the stain if out. Don't set the stain.

I am sure there is a homily/reflection in here about sin and reconciliation.

Sacred laundry

“There are many helpful Episcopal Church web sites about getting lipstick off purificators and candle wax off altar cloths but nothing about removing blood stains from albs.” From a 4:20 am text to Crash Kid and his partner.

My soon-to-be daughter in law shot back, “This is written like the opening line to a mystery novel I would want to read!!”

Maybe this is the next book? The current mystery is more practical. How do I get the blood stains and the red wine stains out of my white alb, currently soaking in cold water? Just like in a mystery novel, let’s use a little flashback here…

I was the altar server at the 5pm vigil Mass last night. We had a visiting priest who preached a banger of a homily, and I was trying to be attentive to both those weird “unique to this parish” things for the visitor and to the ways he prefers to preside. So, you know, I was trying to be mindful and attentive to the liturgy. Pride, as we know, goes before a fall. And it surely did.

The gifts were presented, I took the wine with me to the credence table at the back of the altar to collect the cruet with the water. As I turned and took a step I caught my foot in the hem of my alb. Suddenly I realized I was going to fall and there was nothing to stop me but the marble floor. My training in how to fall (thank you UCI Dance and El Gabriel) kicked in and I tucked and rolled. The water cruet flew from my hand and shattered with a tremendous crash. In seconds the altar was swarmed by people. I am mortified, also wet. As they began to help me up I looked at the hem of my alb and saw a bright red stain. Uh-oh.

"Someone is bleeding," I thought. Then a few seconds later,"It's probably me." It was. Off I went with two parishioners who are nurses to the small chapel behind the main altar where we staunched the bleeding. Presumably clean-up went forward, but I was out of play. The presider came back to make sure I was ok, and told me it was going to be a memorable visit. Someone popped back to ask me if the wine had been consecrated. No. Definitely not. Someone else said that the wine was sitting, apparently unspilled and unbroken on the floor. (As it turned out, a great deal had spilled, all over my alb, but I didn't drop it and apparently set it neatly on the floor. Huh.) They got fresh wine anyway. Good. 

We hunted up a first aid kit to bandage things up so I didn't drip on my alb anymore. The pastor came. It's communion, the helpers went out to receive, the ministers came back so I could receive. (Is this technically allowed? Is it covered under communion for the sick? Did I satisfy the Sunday obligation? This is Roman Catholicism, thereby there must be a rule. No one invoked it. There are definitely rules in place that cover what happens if the priest can't go on — see De defectibus.)

I went home, carrying the alb. Math Man took me to the ER. It took four hours and three rounds of X-rays to locate and removed the glass embedded in my hand. There were jokes. Math Man sent Math Guy photos of the damage (to reassure him I was told). "Stigmata!" he chortled. The transport tech wanted to know if I'd been in a bar fight. (It didn't occur to me that I must have reeked of alcohol, all that red wine on shoes and pants, which were at least black. Parkinson's has dulled my sense of smell.) 

There were apologies from the staff that it was taking so long, and thanks for my patience. I didn't tell them that I had once been in that ER and not had to wait. It didn't end well. Waiting is good.  Except that waiting gives the ghosts time to gather. 

This morning I picked up the alb from where I'd left it yesterday and noticed the violet stains everywhere. What? Oh. The wine. Which leads to the question at hand: how do you get both red wine and blood out of a white alb?

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Odd thoughts: 

Is the clean up protocol different if the wine had been consecrated? Short answer. Yes.

There is advice about cleaning blood stains in First Initiation into Carthusian Life (a manual for Carthusian novices, mostly on prayer, but with practical advice on mail and meals and laundry tacked on to the end).  Soak in COLD water and the stains will vanish in short order, it advises (But only in a Carthusian charterhouse, the rest of us might need to summon the imps of Oxiclean.)

Spelling: the sign “waive here” outside ED radiology (to open the door) a place I visited repeatedly; the clinical notes say I fell on the "alter".

"In Residence" - the Shonda Rhimes mystery we've been watching. Lots of flashback. A scene where the White House chef Marvella smashes glasses on the floor, screaming "Broken glass!"

French Sundays

On Sunday, Math Man announced he was taking a breather. Reading a novel, trying a new recipe (gazpacho - it was great) and watching the US Amateur golf (being played right down the road from us). The last few Sundays he has been busy: visitors, conferences, building new bookshelves to house the books coming home from my office. Nothing sounded like a great plan for a rainy Sunday. 

As I had my tea and browsed the news on my tablet, I noticed an article "French Sundays." The author advocated for a day of rest and recreation, based on the practice in France (where the law provides for a day of rest and many things are perforce closed on Sundays). Don't plan on chores, don't plan an elaborate brunch, don't plan much at all, in fact. Embrace the chance to noodle around, pick up a novel or decide at the last minute to take a walk with your partner. Above all, don't look at your work email.

All good ideas, but what really struck me was that this article managed to never once mention or even intimate that the practice was not merely a French curiosity, but had deep roots in religious traditions. Sabbath has been practiced for millennia. Though if it had, then it might have had to wrestle with the fact that the choice of Sunday as the day of rest is primarily Christian, and other faith traditions have made other choices.

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Gazpacho recipe (after Julia Moskin's in NYT Cooking)

Makes enough for two for dinner with leftovers for Math Man's lunch the next day.

1 lb fresh tomatoes, cored and roughly chopped
1/2 bell pepper, seeded and roughly chopped
1 clove garlic, peeled
1/2 cucumber (peeled and roughly chopped)
1/2 small onion (yes,  roughly chopped)
1/3 cup good olive oil, extra to drizzle on top
1 tsp champagne vinegar
salt to taste

Put the vegetables into the blender (we did this in two batches) and blend until very smooth. While the blender is running, add the vinegar and then stream in the olive oil. Taste. The soup should be creamy, not watery. Add a bit more olive oil if it seems watery and then salt to taste. 

Chill in the refrigerator while you chill on the sofa. Serve in a glass, with an optional drizzle of olive oil.

Is my office bugged?

Is my office bugged? Short answer. Yes.

Well literally, yes. Also metaphorically. Or it least it feels that way. My latest column for Nature Chemistry is titled "Bug Bites," about the taste of bugs (and having a taste for bugs). It hatched while at my niece's wedding reception early in the summer. The crew of cousins got onto the topic from a conversation about cilantro (stink bugs taste like cilantro, as it happens), and then suggested I write about it.

As I was drafting the piece, I went downstairs to grab a second cup of tea from the carafe in the kitchen. I carried it upstairs, set it down on the desk, and got back to work. I absently-mindedly picked up the mug and noticed something off with the scent. It wasn't quite as floral as I expected. I peered into the cup to find a (dead) earwig bobbing about. Oh dear. Its alarm cocktail of dimethyl disulfide and dimethyl trisulfide had given my tea a mephitic edge.

I removed the unfortunate earwig, and drank the tea.

It seemed beyond coincidental that my tea should be bugged, was the universe listening in? I still can't figure out where it came from. I had rinsed the carafe with hot water before filling it with tea, and it had been tightly sealed. I had already had one cup of earwig-less tea in the mug. The sugar bowl is covered. Where did it come from? 

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I took a photo of the bugged tea and of the earwig I fished out, but it felt a bit too gross to illustrate this post. (I described it to Math Man over dinner who winced every time I said "mandible".) So the mug is my organic chemistry mug.